


Once Upon Another Time

by captain_emmajones



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Opening Up, Redemption, Smut, Torn between ripping your head off and kissing you, but i need to go home, oh hey i stumbled into another time and you're hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-07-22 09:30:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7430129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_emmajones/pseuds/captain_emmajones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her top five of things she doesn’t believe in, Emma Swan finds herself, true love, and magic battling for first place. When she stumbles into another world where magic is the rule and meets Captain Hook, a man driven by revenge, she will have to reconsider her classement. Slightly inspired by Outlander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“I am so grateful  
that the universe is vast and impossible  
and so wild that anything can happen;  
that the world is wide but  
just small enough  
that I found you  
amidst all of the madness.”

Ashe Vernon.

.

June 29th.

How comfy is her bed beneath her body, and her sheets smell like fresh flowers. Lazily waking up, she relishes in the touch of a body next to hers, brushing her cheeks, arms, legs.

She can hear birds sing so clearly, she’d thought she’s in the middle of a forest.

Slowly, she comes back to her sense, realizes the coldness which bites her exposed arms.

Her eyes snap open. She remembers.

The library, the book, her suffocating and now she is…

“...in the middle of a godforsaken place,” she grumbles, voice hoarse, and sits up carefully.

No fluffy blanket over her body, just fresh grass and daisies, and she seems to be in the middle of a vast meadow.

Anxiety is not long to tease her mind, throat tight while she stands up, legs shaking.

“Where the fuck am I?”

Erratic heartbeats, she tries to calm herself, breathing in and out deeply.

There must be an explanation. A reasonable one. Maybe her friends are playing her some tricks.

“You have no friends, though,” she hears herself mutter.

She’d break down and cry, but Emma Swan is a woman of action, and therefore she decides to make her way through the pasture. She tries to memorize the flowers to calm down, painting in her head the timid blue of the lychnis, to the tender pink of closed roses, and the-

“What the fuck is that?”

Her question echoes a terrific sound she doesn’t recognize. It comes from behind.

Freezing, she slowly shifts towards the nuisance.

“For the love of god,” she murmurs.

In front of her, a crowd of what she assumes to be knights on horses is cantering towards her and suddenly everything makes sense.

She must be in the middle of a film production!

Relief washing over her, she waits for them to get at her level.

While her instincts scream to her to run as fast as she can.

She has always listened to them, but they used to make sense and now, now she-

“Don’t move you witch!” howls a husky voice.

It’s all it takes her to turn away and throw her legs in front of her as far as she can.

.

Two days ago, June the 27th, 2010, 6pm. 

“I hope all of you are having a good day despite the weather, quite British alike here in London,” humes the BBC’s newscaster, which only makes her hit the accelerator harder.

“If by British alike, you mean storming like a bitch,” mutters Emma Swan’s annoyed voice as she raises an eyebrow, “then yeah, quite right buddy.”

Fingers wrapped around the wheel, she finally reaches the little town of Storybrooke where her client is supposed to spend his holidays.

Who the fuck would spend their holidays in the depth of Great Britain? she thinks to herself, irritated by the neverending rain clouding her mood since she stepped foot in the United Kingdom.

Frowning, Emma Swan concentrates herself on the different indications around the road. According to the white signs, she needs to turn to her left to get to Granny’s, the hotel where she rented a room.

Her mission is quite clear in her mind. Find the guy, handcuff him to her hired car and fly the fuck back to Boston. Quick, efficient, very much like her.

Turning, she discerns in this late afternoon an old fashion construction, from the wood of the walls to the greenish colors of the plastic table in the terrace. Over the front door, letters flicker: Granny’s.

“Fucking awesome,” she mutters under her breath as she parks her car on the side of the road.

She removes the keys, unlocks her seat belt, grabs her red leather jacket, and opens the door. The rain leaves her no mercy, slaughtering her freshly washed hair, and irritation is slowly strangling her from inside as she slams the door.

Stay calm, Emma. Two days and you’re back in your own little flat. 

Determined, she makes her way to the entrance with long strides, her black boots squashing the puddles without a frisson as the wet pearls hurtle down her whole body.

She hates rain; always served with a slice of coldness and this particular smell, something rustic and full of humidity, it causes her hair to frizz and gives away to everybody the feeling of being a wet dog.

“Hello,” greats her a joyful voice as she takes a step into the warmth of Granny’s.

Relief washing over her, she’s grateful to be finally a dry place.

“Hi,” she automatically exclaims back as her eyes examin the reception.

Everything is as old fashioned as she had imagined it during her flight: from the flowers on the wall paper to the unmissable wood claiming each fourniture, it seems like she has stumbled into another time. However, she’s quite happy to notice that a very agreeable smell floats in the air, and she enthusiastically gathers that the dinner will probably be the best part of the day.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” asks her again the same voice, and she shifts to face a pretty brunette behind the counter.

Offering her a polite smile, she takes a few step towards it and leans her elbows on the wooden surface.

“Yeah, I’ve rented a room to the name of Emma Swan,” she informs her, tone courteous but quite distant.

The woman, Ruby according the badge on her chest, searches for her name on the laptop in front of her while she waits the most patiently she’s able to, her fingertips tapping on the wood absently.

This place, for some reason, gives her goosebumps. And the silence is overwhelming.

Licking her lips, she eyes the paintings on the walls: wolves, broken glasses, girls wearing bloody dresses and white figures under a full moon.

Definitely creepy.

“Here you go, miss Swan,” tells her Ruby as she hands her keys. “Hoping you’ll have a lovely stay.”

“Thank you.” Stay away from me.

Without asking for her rest, she flees to her room and finds out anxiously that the morbid painting are eating all the walls.

.

June the 28th, 2010, 10am.

“Can I help you ma’am ?” inquires a soft voice as she scrutinizes the library.

She knows her client goes there thrice a week, she just has to wait for him. Disguised in a long black trench coat, she’s sitting in the back ; it’s the only place where one is able to have the fullest grasp on what’s going on.

“No, thank you. I’m fine,” she absently answers without offering a glance to the petite woman facing her.

Her only goal is to get out of this place as soon as possible, she has no time to waste on politeness.

“If you need anything, just ask,” the brunette tries again, and her determination allows her a look from Emma.

Two big blue eyes, a young face, slim body fitted in a very lovely bleu-canard dress, Belle Gold, informs a small etiquette on her chest.

“Actually,” Emma begins, standing up from her seat, “maybe you could help me find my friend.” And with those words she smiles brightly, showing a picture of her client to the librarian.

The slim fingers take the glass paper, consider the features, eyebrows frowned. 

“Oh,” she exclaims after a small instant, “I don’t know his name but he should come tomorrow. His favorite section is right behind your back,” she explains her, pointing with her fingers to the oldest books in the store.

Emma smiles politely. “Thank you, I’ll come back tomorrow.”

The woman nods and goes back to her counter. Emma decides to take a look at her client’s favorite books. The more she knows about him, the more vulnerable he’ll be to her grip.

Staring at the dusty shelf, she tries to recognize an author without much hope; she has never been the nerdy type. No interest for the matter, no time either to try to develop any interest.

In the system, she had only learned the necessities: counting, reading (not even that well), and for some reason she can not grasp even nowadays how she has managed to learn to draw. Her only talent. 

On top of the book shelve, a work attracts her eye; frowning, she lifts herself on her tiptoe to reach it and puts it down on the table she was sitting at. The front cover is covered with a thick layer of dust and she passes a quick hand over it, the little clouds falling at her feet.

“Once upon a time,” she reads out loud, for some reason infinitely intrigued.

Her fingers trace the golden letters soft underneath her touch, the paper smooth and strangely well preserved.

There is this urge inside of her, this firework about to burst into her chest, she doesn’t understand. Her fingertips seem to be burnt by the desire to open this fucking book and run herself through it.

“Do not open it.”

She can’t hold back the little jump of her shoulders, taken off guards, as her alert eyes fall on the old man’s face. His features are crumpled and a frightening glimmer rules the deadness of his eyes.

“Do not open it,” he whispers again, Mr Gold, she reads on his chest, and his voice is the softest menace. “This book hides wonders your narrow mind couldn’t understand.”

Anger block her throat as she clenches her jaw.

“Are you mad ?” she hisses, eyes storming, “Do not threaten me.”

Her tone is certain, not a flinch in her figure. She knows how to deal with creeps like him. Experience taught her how.

She doesn’t expect him to smile to her, something even more terrifying, deeply disturbing.

“Oh, miss Swan. I’m not threatening you. I’m informing you of the danger you have in your hands.”

His words make her lower her gaze, eyes falling on the white shade of her knuckles firm on the book, awestruck by her own desire to open it.

“It’s simply a book.” Should have been an affirmation but her doubts are palpable.

Are you fucking losing your mind Emma ? It is just a book for fuck’s sake. 

Mister Gold doesn’t even bother to answer, a knowing smile on his thin lips, and it only freaks her out more.

“Have a lovely day, Miss Swan.”

Her heart is beating to death in her ears, a sound heady, visceral. Breath Emma. Breath.

Without her consent, the book falls next to her. When she eyes it, for some psychic reason, it isn’t open like any book would be.

It lays quietly on the floor.

Once upon a time.

.

June 28th, 2010, 10pm.

“Hey, miss Swan?” calls her a voice, causing her to lift her gaze from her client’s file.

She has just finished eating dinner, a local recipe with lots of spices including cinnamon or cumin. A real festin. Stomach full, she’s now sitting in a booth in the back, a yellow pullover keeping her warm as brown candles burn on the table.

“Yeah, Ruby?” she answers, fingers surrounding a record indicating her client’s habit in the city.

The waitress had been a lovely company during dinner, telling her about her life with her wife Dorothy and the absence of her grandma, Granny that is. An obviously extroverted person who made everyone feel at ease despite the lingering tension she felt between those faded walls.

“I could totally read the lines of your hands!” hums the brunette as she arrives, all teeth out.

What a warm person, your opposite Emma.

The bail bond person offers a polite smile, abandoning her file on the table while the waitress comes to sit in front of her.

“I don’t really believe in those kinds of things,” she hears herself explain.

For fuck sake, don’t make this place creepier with your bullshit about my future.

Comfy in her red t-shirt, Ruby doesn’t seem the slightest offended and takes Emma’s hand in hers anyway.

“It’s gonna be fun, don’t worry.”

I can’t believe you’re letting this happening.

Sighing not so discreetly, she watches as the woman opens her hand and concentrates herself on the lines of her skin.

Emma Swan doesn’t believe in a lot of things; magic isn’t part of those. No Santa Claus for wee Emma, no tooth Fairy, barely the far-to-brutal reality of a world where nobody wants her.

“Here,” starts Ruby, pointing at the curviest line, “is your love line.”

And Emma to stare at the thin line and be surprised to see one at all.

“You’ve been pretty lonely, haven’t you ?” asks the waitress, and she feels like this is slowly turning into a psychotherapy. She doesn’t answer though, raises an eyebrow in annoyance. “Well, it’s about to change!”

“Is it?” the irony is evident, could even sound offensive to someone who would care, but Ruby doesn’t give a fuck and keeps going.

“You’re going to meet a man, soon. Tomorrow, perhaps,” states Ruby, and the details actually catch Emma’s attention.

Not that she believes in those kinds of things, but it actually scares her to think anyone could believe in this amount of horseshit.

“He’s going to love you very much, and so will you. But-”

Ah, there’s always a but.

Ruby is frowning harder, as if her vision is unpleasing and Emma isn’t that surprised.

“See, the line is divided in two sections here,” her words are followed by her fingers, “this means that you’re either going to stay with this man, or you’re going to meet someone new. But, this new person… look at the line, it starts thick and turns so slim. It means that you’re never going to love as much as you loved him.” 

Ruby’s voice get lower and Emma can tell the words are painful for her, a little bit like she’s living through the lines what she believes her customer will have to endure.

“With the second man, you’ll have a child,” a smile in her voice, “a boy.”

In all of her disbelief, Emma is struck by the emotion in her tone, the genuineness of her explanations. It blocks something in her throat, causes her mood to change drastically.

“No child with the first man?” she hears herself ask, and she’s not sure she’s mistress of her words.

Ruby’s eyes fall on hers then, and it only makes her throat tighter.

“Your path with that first man is unsure and will be full of edges and adventures. The question you must ask yourself is: is true love worth it?”

“True love,” Emma repeats, a bitter laugh in her voice, “I don’t believe in your true love bullshit.”

And with that, she stands up, claiming her hand as her own in an aggressive gesture.

True love? There’s no such thing as true love.

Let’s talk about real things happening to real people: true loneliness, sure, true despair, true abandonment.

But not true love. That’s some fairytale bullshit.

(It’s easier not to believe into something. It saves you disappointment.)

(Her disappointment’s name is Neal.)

.

A few minutes ago, June the 29th, 10am, 2010.

“Hi again, miss Gold,” Emma Swan greets as she puts a foot into Mister Gold’s library.

The thought of them being married is still so odd to her as she sees the sweet lady offer her a smile. “Good morning to you too, miss Swan.”

Emma is in an outstandingly good mood, and for cause: she’s going to leave this hell of a country and come back to her sweet home in Boston. What a time to be alive.

“I’m just going to wait for my friend over there,” she lightly tells as she makes her way to her sit.

Dropping off her black coat on the chair and her purse at her feet, she doesn’t realize at first the book prevailing on the table.

Once upon a time.

Her mood changes instantly, eyebrows frowned as she eyes the cover. Why would it be here if it’s dangerous?

Oh for fuck’s sake, Emma; it’s not dangerous. It’s a book.

Curiosity strangling her, she hastily gazes at the entrance of the shop to see if anyone is looking at her, before cradling the book between her hands.

Why she has such a fascination for what is forbidden, she’ll never understand.

Heart rate getting faster inexplicably, she draws the letters with her fingers, biting her lower lip, and stands still, waiting for her curiosity to take over and open the damn book.

One, two, three; she lifts the front cover.

She’s ashamed to admit that she expects something to happen, staring at the book like some mad woman, eyes open wide, heart at the very edges of her mouth.

But nothing.

Nothing fucking changes in the library, still this humid scent and the dust covering each books.

Sighing, she turn some pages and admires the illustrations; the quality is quite remarkable for a storybook for kids, each emotion described perfectly on the faces.

One actually catches her attention.

A man, dark tousled hair, deep blue eyes, his expression as a monster crushes his love’s heart. The despair in the silent scream which tears his face apart, tears lost in tormented oceans.

The grounds suddenly seems to vibrate, her knees giving up underneath her. Panic hastily blocks her throat, she tries to scream for help, but she can’t breath, she can’t see, she can’t smell anymore.

No sound comes off her mouth. Instead, silence. No air to grasp. This void in her chest.

Death.

.

Now, June 29th.

Running is something Emma Swan is quite familiar with.

She loves a good jogging on sunny sundays, a fresh breeze tangling her hair and sweat hurtling down her back.

Back in the system, running was somehow the only way to survive; her tiny legs escaping the grasp of older children, of malevolent foster parents.

In her adult life, it’s become a habit; running away from douchebags, from her responsibilities, from any social bonding or relationship further than mere acquaintances.

Thus, when she hurtles down a whole fucking forest, you'd think it’d be easier.

She distancies them by passing through spaces where horses can’t follow, but cleverness won’t save her for too long. Indeed, her legs are getting weaker underneath her weight and she can not tell the last time she ate.

In fact, she can not even tell the hours of day.

Probably around 4pm, she gathers, sun slowly making its way down in the sky.

Thinking of anything but the fucking knights wanting to hurt her behind her is helping her to controlate her respiration.

Breath in, breath out.

She can see now the end of the forest and the beginning of what seems to be a small village, and she has given up on the whole logic thing. Instead, she runs faster and ignores as well as she can the pain throbbing into her whole body.

She doesn’t really make out the small houses around her, with their tiny multicolors roof. Instead, she does smell the species, the strongest ones she has ever experienced: vanilla, cinnamon, lavender, all mixed together in a fresh scent.

The ground beneath her feet, first muddy brown in the forest is now almost sandy.

Breath in, breath out.

She has no idea for how long she has been running, probably doesn’t want to know, but she knows her steps are getting shorter and scarce.

Sweat drowning her, she doesn’t dare to take a look behind. She’s haunted instead by the sound of those horse’s hooves.

She summons herself; if she starts thinking like that she’ll cry and won’t take a step more.

Not the fucking time or place for feelings. Your only mission is to survive, Emma. 

Funny how she feels like she’s right back in the system, how familiar this high speed chase is.

From afar, her exhausted eyes make out a port where bags of food are stacked. Many beautiful ships are docked there too, and she would have loved the landscape if well, she weren’t trying to save her ass.

She closes her eyes. Barely a second. Lets her feet move on their own, tired.

She lifts her eyelids too late to avoid the man standing in the middle of the street, and stumbles on him.

She falls on black leather, nose nudges in the crook of a man’s neck, fucking out of breath. The stranger’s grip on her body is firm, one hand on her arm and the other in the small of her back. (Not a hand, she’ll find out later.)

“Bloody hell,” mumbles a voice underneath her, and she’s so glad to recognize a thick British accent.

Finally something familiar in this unfamiliar hell.

Groaning, she flits her head to consider the stranger and her heart sinks.

No warmth in the deep blue of his eyes, barely annoyance as she stands still, something terrible reigning in his oceans; the allure of darkness, a corrupted soul.

(She’s not quite sure how she can make out so much with a single glance.)

“Get off of me,” his voice is husky whisper, a chilling one.

“I ca-can’t.”

Her weakness causes her to want to punch her own fucking face but her legs aren’t holding her anymore, pins and needles in her lower body.

At this point, she’s practically begging him to do something.

She must look like a fucking mess, hair sticking to her forehead, her whole face red. He stares at her for what seems like an eternity before shifting her and slowly lifting her with him.

The feeling of the ground beneath her feet disrupt her legs but she holds on to his arm.

“Thank you,” she hears herself murmur.

Sadly, she doesn’t expect to face a black knight.

.

June 29th. 5pm. Somewhere in time.

She can’t fucking believe it.

“Thus, gentlemen, you are telling me that this poppy right here is the most powerful witch in all Arendelle?” 

She can’t fucking believe it.

“Yes, Captain. And our Queen really wants her dead.”

Captain fucking Hook. She needs therapy.

Eyeing the shining hook, she sees the black leathered man points at her. “Oh, sorry to inform you lads, but this woman is mine now.”

Mine?

She stops herself from running his own damn hook through his throat, fisting her hands instead.

“But sir,” starts the chief of the black knights, and his embarrassment is palpable, “the Queen will kill you.”

She gives a look to the cockiest man alive, one hand at his belt, a dashing smile on his features. (He’s hot, she’ll give him that.)

“Bah, Regina owes it to me,” he simply states.

Don’t fucking kill him now, Emma. He’s surely better than that Regina.

She doesn’t know the Queen (wasn’t it Elizabeth?) but she can tell not everyone gets to call the mistress by her name from the gasp of horror from the black knights.

A subordinate comes to talk to his chief, and the debate is quite intense from her perspective. Meanwhile, she waits, arms crossed on her chest, and tries to ignore how Captain Hook is looking at her. Clearly taking advantage of the wetness of her tanktop giving away her undergarments.

Pervert Captain Hook. She’s fucking great.

“Captain, you shall keep the witch, but if the Queen decides-”

Incredulous, she watches as the fucker takes her arm and gives no sign of interestment for the words of the chief.

This is going to be a fun ride, she can tell.


	2. Sing for the Lion and Lamb

June the 29th, 5:10pm, somewhere in time. 

“You’ll see; this ship is a marvel.” 

She still can’t believe it. Can’t understand what kind of reality she’s lost herself in, because nothing makes any fucking sense anymore. 

Still, she follows the black leathered man, squishing her eyes because of the sunlight, her steps sure again on the cobblestones bordering the side of the docks. He has offered her a flask of water a few minutes ago, and she’s grateful to be able to quench her thirst. Her clothes seem incongruous in this crowd of long dresses and corsets, jeans and tank top a little bit too modern. 

They must all think she’s mad. Perhaps she is. She’s not certain anymore. 

What she is certain of, however, is the grip of the pirate on her arm that’s slowly getting to her nerves. 

Calm the fuck down, Emma; you’ll knock him out later. 

“Are we going to walk for much longer ?” she asks as she hands him the flask, and tries to look as naive as possible. 

She wants him to think she’s no threat for now, intimately convinced that he’ll let her go if she’s not of any help. She hasn’t got much experience with pirates - for fuck’s sake her inner monologue is making her cringe - but this one, for some reason, seems to be an honorable man. 

“No, lass. But perhaps you could tell me the name of the greatest sorceress in Arendelle,” he articulates, the sun leaving luminous shines on his tousled hair and causing his eyes to be bluer than ever. 

He’s smiling too, something polite, far from the cockiness he had put on display a few minutes ago. 

“They call me Swan,” she answers as she crosses her arms on her chest. 

“Hmm, it fits you.” 

He’s all charms out but she’s no fool; he hasn’t saved her for her pretty (red by the way) face. She knows people, she has been observing them from her youngest age, benefits of being invisible. She knows when something is haunting their soul and Captain Hook’s soul is rotten. 

Eventually, they reach a remote part of the docks- she gathers pirates aren’t that welcome in town- and his hand hurtles down her arm to find her palm. 

Awfully disconcerted, she watches as his face comes closer to hers and his lips find her ear. 

“The largest one. That’s the one,” he murmurs then, husky whisper, and she forces herself to smile. 

She’d murder him but there are too many people around them. She just had to stumble on the flirty, well-educated bastard of the high seas. 

Her face seemingly open to his innuendos, she scrutinizes the horizon and… well, he hasn’t been hyperbolizing, she must admit it. 

It’s the greatest vessel she has ever laid eyes on, and despite her situation she can not help herself but be truly admirative. Emma has always been a lover of beauty and the white sails married with the refined wood are a sight for sore eyes. She’s surprised, in fact; she didn’t expect such luxury from a pirate’s ship. 

“Her name is the Jolly Roger,” he whispers again in her ear, and she can’t hold back a slight roll of eyes.

It amuses him. (He has dimples when he smiles.) 

In all of her anxiousness, she realizes she hasn’t smelled sea air for years and breathes in deeply as he guides her to the ship. 

It doesn’t calm her. 

.

June 29th, 6pm. 

“Sit down, lass. We need to talk.” 

They are in his quarters, she can tell. Her mesmerized look details the room; it is so fucking organized it’s making her uncomfortable. Books are aligned on shelves by alphabetic order, the one place bed made with hospital corner. It’s just really disturbing for her messy mind. 

Everything still doesn’t make sense, who is she kidding nothing makes sense, but he’s pouring rum in a glass and she’s quite thankful. 

A sip and you end him. 

“But first, let’s have a drink, shall we?” he humes, and the lightness of his voice is a bag of lies. 

If she’s acting like Candide he’s totally faking his smug behaviour. She’s not sure of what it implies for her. 

He hands her the glass then, his fingers brushing with hers on purpose, and she holds his gaze, forgetting for an instant her play. He’s infuriatingly handsome; his nose elegant, his full lips surrounded by a brown scruff accentuating his jawline.

“To our beginning,” he cheers, the intensity of his gaze stealing her breath away. 

More like to our fucking soon-to-be ending. 

“To our beginning,” she simply states again, offering him a coy smile. 

Her plan is quite simple: getting him drunk, more importantly knocking him out and getting the fuck out of here. Definitely simpler in her mind. 

He holds his bottle in front of his lips, eyebrow arched, and lifts it up a little before drinking from the bottleneck. She does the same, following his lead far too much for her own linking. She doesn’t expect the alcohol to burn her throat and stomach. 

That’s when it hits her: she hasn’t eaten for the last eight hours and she’s in no way able to handle alcohol in this condition. 

She needs to knock him out now that she still has some strength. 

“So, Swan, tell me: how did such a powerful sorceress as yourself end up in Misthaven ?” he asks her as he comes to sit on his deck, his open legs in front of her face. 

She knows he’s testing her, waiting for her to blush and run away. Doesn’t know he’s speaking to Emma fucking Swan. 

Drawing a smile on her lips, she stands up and grabs his coat with one hand, placing herself between his legs. If he’s troubled he doesn’t give it away, his brow arching itself even more. 

“Why should I tell you the truth ?” she inquires, her voice as soft as velvet. 

He smiles wider, and approaches his face to hers, nose brushing hers. “Well, because the Queen wanted you dead and I saved your life.” 

His voice is a whisper above her lips as she eyes the small box on his desk. Grinning harder, she considers him a few seconds, mouth panting. 

And crashes her lips against his. 

She takes him off guard, she gathers, his body jumping slightly at her attack but he’s quick to reciprocate the kiss, his tongue diving into her mouth. Meanwhile, her hand travels on the desk, and stops on the object of her desire. 

She knows she can not fail. Come on, Emma, it’s now or never. 

One, two, three, she hits him as hard as she can, teeth clasped together as she aims the back of his head. 

She stands back then, ready to burst out the room. Doesn’t expect him to grab her wrist. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” 

It all goes very quickly. 

It’s her fist in his face and him pressing her against an armoire, her nails in the sensitive skin of his neck and his teeth along her collarbone. His leg wrapped around her waist and her never ending punches, her innommable rage. 

He’s stronger than her, obviously. 

She could have beaten him with something in her stomach but everything is harder when her entire body begs for food. 

She tests her luck anyway, tries to grab the sword at his belt, watches him be faster and press the thin blade against her throat. 

In despair, her hand finds his wrist and tries to keep him from hurting her. 

There’s this rage in his eyes too, a rage that dilates his pupils and causes him to look terrifying. 

“You’ll regret this,” she states, out of breath. 

The wicked grin that slips his face open. 

“You started, I finish,” he tells her, barely above a whisper. 

She panics. Tears burn her eyes as he presses the metal harder against her skin. 

And suddenly, he lets go. Stands back, his eyes darting at her, and she’s just thankful to be able to breath. 

She can’t avoid the punch he offers her, his fist hitting her forehead in a muffled sound, and falls into Morphée’s arms. 

.

June 29th.

She’s floating on a warm cloud, and it smells like vanilla, and everything is so peaceful. 

A bucket of water on her face. 

Her eyes snap open, and the headache jumps at her throat. 

“What the-” she murmurs as she eyes her laced wrist and ankles to a wooden chair. 

Oh great. She remembers. 

Screwing up her eyes, she discerns him at his desk, busy reading a book, and anger slowly blocks her throat. 

How much she wants to punch his pretty face again despite the consequences. 

Eventually, he looks up to her. “Oh, Swan, you’re back among us.” His tone is cheerful but there’s no light in his eyes. 

And she just kills him with her eyes, incredibly pissed off. And tired. And hungry. And lost. 

“I’ve got something for you before we can start talking like we were supposed to. That is before you decided to attack my defenseless self.” 

What a pain in the ass. She wants him dead. 

However, as he stand up and takes a full plate of food in his hands, she can’t say she hates him that much. On the sliver, some amuse-bouche it seems, bread, and rice. 

“I can tell you’re hungry,” he simply states as he makes his way towards her. 

“And what ?” she inquires, “you’re going to feed me?” 

He chuckles then and gets out a knife. Instinctively, she flinches and it catches his eyes she can tell. 

Oh, the judgment in his eyes, the idea he must create of her. For some reason, it makes her blood boil. 

She’s cut in her thoughts by the light brush of the knife against her skin as he undoes the laces. 

“Why would you bind me if you’re just going to take them down?” she asks him, fingers caressing the aggressed skin of her wrist in slow motion. 

“Do not question me, Swan.” 

And then he hands her the plate and it’s all it takes her to shut up, the thought of it being poisoned barely touching her mind. 

From the side of her eyes, she sees him get back to his desk and concentrates himself on his book. 

The book. She needs to find it. Whatever this all mes may be, the only solution would logically be the storybook. 

“So, Swan, I have a deal to offer you.” 

He doesn’t glance at her, turns a page instead, so fucking calm she wants to stab him. 

“I’m listening,” she shabbers, pushing canapés in her mouth. 

She tastes tomatoes and some unknown spices. 

Slowly, he puts the book on his desk, crosses his arms and stares at her, all cockiness gone from his features. 

“You’re going to help me get my revenge on my long nemesis and in exchange,” she’s hanging into each of his words, “I’ll lead you wherever you want me to.” 

This is fucking nonsense, Emma. 

She takes a second to close her eyes, thoughts strangling her, before letting speak her instinct. 

“Deal.” 

.

She had never imagined pirates could be this charming and well educated. 

An oil lamp lighted up on the captain’s desk, he bloody hates candles, it must be around 8pm and they are still talking. 

Sitting in a comfortable booth in front of him, she’s trying to steal him some information on her location. 

“I tried a new spell,” she begins, tone sure, “and for some reason it fucked up and I ended up waking up in the middle of a meadow.” 

Her words make him chuckle, and she’s offended at first.

“I have never met a woman who uses fuck in each of her sentences,” he explains, ringed fingers tapping on the wood. 

For some reason, his cockiness warms up her heart; they had been trying to kill each other a few hours ago and it had created a “bond” between them. As if they were old playground camarades; not that she would know, she had never been good at making friends. 

Still, this tension between them; both knowing the person in front of them could be a redoubtable opponent. 

“Where are we, exactly?” she asks him and sees him get out a map of a drawer at her words. 

A handmade map. It’s beautiful; the outlines thick, different colors separating the diverse location. Blue is the sea, green the forest, a crème brown the villages. 

Infinitely concentrated, he pushes it towards her and points out to their location; Misthaven, she reads before attempting to recognize a name. 

“Regina’s kingdom, more known as Misthaven or as foreigners like to call it: the Enchanted Forest.” 

“The Enchanted Forest,” she repeats, anxiety stealing her breath. 

The blue of his eyes examines her then, and he can tell she’s completely overwhelmed. 

“Aye, believe me I know; quite the presumptuous name. Anyway, we’ll have to stop by another port in a few days, at the other side of the realm.We should find something to destroy my nemesis there.” 

She thanks him silently for acting like he hasn’t noticed her trouble; if she starts opening up she’ll stumble into a very dark place. 

“What year is it ?” she inquires again, and this time he can not hide his astonishment.

“Why, 1788, love. Your spell couldn’t allow you to travel through time, could it?” 

“No, of course not, but I was just checking.” 

For fuck’s sake, really? 

Her hands, beforehand calmly spread on the wood, begin shaking and she tries to hide them discreetly beneath the desk. Yet, his look conveys everything: he knows. 

Her breath comes in short puffs; she’s completely freaking out and she has no idea how the hell she’s going to get home. 

For fuck’s sake, breath Emma. Breath. 

Visibly perturbed, he eyes her longingly, not missing the little pearls of sweat on her forehead but keeps himself from making any remark. 

“...Aye, let’s talk about my revenge, shall we ?” 

She nods, relieved to distract her mind from her own thoughts, and bites her lower lips. 

He stands up, rummages through the armoire where he pinned her earlier, and she focuses on the directness of his gesture. And how his leather pants hug his ass and-

“His name is Rumpelstiltskin,” he begins, cutting her in her thoughts, and leans his ass against his desk next to her, “he’s the strongest wizard in all the realms and accessorily, the Dark One.” 

She frowns. 

“And you think you can kill him?” The scorn in her tone is palpable and it clearly upsets him, hand fisting. 

“That won’t stop me from trying,” he hisses, and she recognizes the dark gleam in his oceans. “Plus, I’ll have help from the great sorceress of Arendelle.”

She hates the sinful smile which splits his face open. 

“You do realize I don’t match up with him, right?” She hopes he catches the warning in her voice; a few hours ago she didn’t even know this place, and fucking magic and- “You’re going to get yourself killed and me in the process.” 

He smiles then, and it’s so far from a smile, it’s a vile scar and it gives her goosebumps. 

“I do not care about dying, Swan.” A pause, her face crumbling. “But if you do, then you should start training.” 

How much she misses flirty Captain Hook suddenly.


	3. αρχή

June 29th, 1788, 9pm. 

Hook guides her to her quarters, a room next to his own so that “he can sneak in and have fun” (she doesn’t believe him, thinks it has more to do with the fact that there are thirsty sailors on here). 

He orders that they fetch her a bathtub while she discovers her new home. 

It’s dusty. Old. Smells like a body has been rotting here for a few decades. Windows are closed, heavy shutters shut and she barely distinguishes a small bed in the middle. 

She doesn’t feel like complaining; she’s had worst and it’s only temporary. (She’s holding on to the thought of waking up in her own bed tomorrow.) 

The bathtub put down next to the bed, he shuts the door behind him “Goodnight Swan,” his eyes lingering on her figure, and she’s left alone in the chamber. 

One hand resting on the wall, her gaze loses itself. She closes her eyes, a cacophony of feelings strangling her.

“This is a nightmare,” she murmurs, and her own voice surprises her; it’s awfully hoarse and broken. 

She stares once again at the bed, throat tight, while trembling fingers keep tears from rolling on her cheeks. All adrenaline gone from her body, she feels like throwing up and sleeping forever. 

She could break down now, but she’s stronger than that.  
Inhaling deeply, she makes her way to the bathtub and contemplates the clothes Hook left on the edge: a simple white gown, a nightgown and a corset. Her fingers find the fabric, discover a soft material, perhaps cotton, and from the threads hanging, she can tell it has already been worn. 

She takes it to her nose, a smile on her lips; it smells like fresh flowers. 

Hastily, she undresses herself, abandoning the sticky clothes which have been irritating her all day. Her body is red under the ceiling lights. 

Slowly, she dives a foot into the water. 

“God, bless your pretty ass Hook.” 

. 

June 30th, 9am.

The first rays of sunshine on her closed eyelids are scalds. They savagely tear her off her dreams and make her face the reality: she’s not back home. It wasn’t a nightmare. 

She glances at the room, hands gripping on the reeking blankets, I don’t want to know the last time those were washed, and can make out two umber walls, the others being graced by a splendid floral wallpaper. Green, the flowers, mauve the background. 

Fucking delightful. 

She doesn’t allow herself tears despite the frustration, swallows down her feelings and stands up quickly, throwing her legs out of the bed. 

Brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, she eyes through her swollen eyes the clothes left on the bathtub. 

I guess you have no fucking choice anyway. 

.

10am. 

“This is so much harder than it looks like in movies.” 

Struggling with the whole Enchanted Forest clothes, Emma sighs and gives up on the corset, throwing it on the pile of dirty clothes. The gown alone will do even if it marks each curve of her body and leaves no place for imagination. 

She’s already planning her day: she saw books yesterday in the Captain’s quarters, she needs to make sure british accent alike bastard doesn’t have the key to her happiness. If she’s not able to find the book, she’ll go eat and wash her clothes.

She has no intention of cleaning the room: she doesn’t want to make it more bearable, she doesn’t want to be even the slightest tempted to stay longer and be lazy. 

The state of her place will just be an assurance of her desire to run the hell out of this realm. 

.  
12am.

Emma makes her way to the dining room, wood cracking under her feet, and her getup causes chuckles in the room. 

She clenches her jaw, eyes storming, as she glances at the rows of benches where forty men eat. Smells of beer, not so fresh food and sweat attack her nose, and she winces. 

Hold on Emma, you’ve had worst. 

She knows how she must look like: some peasant lost in a far too large nightgown. Doesn’t keep some men to glance at her in a way that gives her goosebumps. 

“Ahoy, can I help ya mistress?” chuckles a man at her right, and she restrains her desire to punch him in the face for the pervert gleam reigning in his eyes. 

“Actually yes, where is the Captain?” 

She must have an unknown irresistible sense of humor because the whole row bursts into laughter, and she’s left with her silent rage and closed fist. 

“Where is he?” she repeats, voice low, brows framing a harsh line over her eyes. 

It catches his attention. “Oh lass, ya got fire. We like fire here. We like to wet it.” 

More laughter. 

Oh, the desire to grip his throat and choke him to death. 

“I’m not here to laugh, where-” she tries again, but she’s cut by the pirate’s hand on her mouth. 

The fucker has stood up in the blink of an eye, pressing his oily hand over her lips. He approaches his face to hers, his alcoholic breath filling her lungs. 

“Ya were saying, yar highness?” 

“Let her go, Rogers,” orders suddenly a voice behind her.

Shifting, she discerns a man, in his late fifties from his salt and pepper head, a long beard surrounding thin lips on a round face. His clothes are discordant with the rest of the crew’s uniform: the black shirt and muddy pants surprisingly clean. He’s charismatic. 

“Rupert,” mumbles the other pirate as he lets go of her, “ya always have to interfere with everyone’s business.” 

No more laughters around her, she stands still, waiting for something to happen. 

“It is my business when ya put yar filthy hands on young maiden. Now get the hell out of here before I whip yar useless ass.” 

Some chuckles among the silence, Rogers fleeing, head low. 

“What have ya got all of you staring at me?” 

One second, to judge their master, and then the explosion of voices, the hubbub taking over everything. 

Damn, that was close. 

She watches as Rupert makes his way to the Captain’s table but grabs his hand before he can sit down. She dives into the warmth of his brown eyes. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, and she hopes he understands the depth of her words. 

A genuine smile illuminates his face. “Ya’re welcome lass. Be careful on here, there’s the best and the worst of men.” 

She nods. “I will.” 

It’s strange to have someone to look over her, to tell her to be careful; she never had that. She sits in a small corner, desperately wishing to be invisible again . 

An instant, and then a man stumbles on the sit in front of her. 

A warm smile embellishing her face as recognizes her savior. “Couldn’t let a lass like yarself eat alone, could I?” 

12:30am.

She waits for the principal plate to be served to flee, telling Rupert she has a “little feminine problem”, the crowd far too busy by the mashed potatoes. She doesn’t forget to pass behind Hook, filching his keys. 

She hurtles down the stairs, takes the first right, and follows down the long corridor. Once again, it all seems so familiar to the life she used to have, when she was escaping from the system and he- Neal- was in her life. 

Bad times, Emma. 

She’s surprised to find her hands shaking around the key as she unlocks the door; this isn’t her. 

Oh, the privilege of inhaling deeply in his quarters, the fresh scent, the masculine perfume; a true treasure aboard a stinky pirate ship. 

She doesn’t waste more time, heart beating hastily, moves instead a chair to get a better access to the shelves. There are two of them, one on the right wall, the other above his bed. 

Jumping on the chair, she scans the books on the right side, notices the total lack of dust over them, a fucking maniac jesus christ, but doesn’t recognize her undoing. 

She bites her lips, takes a look at luxurious golden clock in front of her: 12:30.

Here’s to hoping Hook is a jolly fellow. 

The next second, she’s kneeling on the mattress of his bed, the softness of his azul blanket welcome underneath her skin. 

“I’d never imagine I’d have you in my bed this soon,” brags a voice behind her, and she loses all color. 

Fuck. 

She turns around slowly, an apologetic smile on her lips so-obviously-not-genuine, and she flinches when she discovers how close he is to her. 

Barely a few centimeters separate them, and his breath tickles her skin. 

He eyes her through his heavy eyelashes, licks his lips and bends his head towards her. By reflex, she holds her breath. 

“What are you doing, Swan?” he murmurs, satin over her skin. 

Mirroring him, she licks her lips and clears her throat. “‘Was looking for a book”, she explains, and it’s pathetic how little she tries. 

“Hmm? You were?” 

She nods, unaware of his thoughts. 

“My keys if you please, thief,” he naturally requests. 

She looks straight into his eyes as she puts them in his open palm, despite the fact that she’s sure of the redness on her cheeks. 

“Happy?” she even dares, and it makes him chuckle. 

Not truly though, because the next instant his grip is firm over her hand and his oceans menacing. 

“Do that again and I cut your hand. Have I been heard, Swan?” 

It’s terrifying how his tone doesn’t change, barely the inflection of the voice, this superior octave, and the animosity in his gaze. 

The type of guy who’d stab you and still tell you to have a good day. 

One minute, and he abandons her skin, his smirk back on, as if nothing had ever happened. She massages her wrist, slightly relieved, heart pounding, and watches as he searches through his armour and get out a corset. 

“Since the concept seems foreign in Arendelle, allow me to show you,” he articulates as he comes again near her. 

Did you just nod? For fuck’s sake. 

“Turn around, Swan,” he tells her, and she reluctantly obeys. 

For all she knows, he could cut her throat and throw her body into the sea, but she can’t bring herself to care. 

His movements are assured as he passes the material over her chest, her arms raised, and begin lacing it. 

It’s so fucking awkward. Captain Hook is showing her how to wear a corset. 

“...and then, you have to really tightening it up, like so,” her gasp as he steals her breath away, hands coming to her throat in despair, maybe he’s really trying to kill me, “ don’t worry, you shall get used to it soon.” 

“For how long-” a pause to breath, “have you been a woman, Hook?” 

He laughs, and it causes her own demise. 

She smiles at the wall, satisfied. 

“Longer than you, it seems.” 

Fair enough.

. 

July 2nd ,11pm. 

While she stares at the mauve ceiling, a dirty mauve, sitting down on her bed, she realizes something : she’s starving, again. 

Therefore, bare feet and wet hair which leaves a trail of water in her back, she decides to go visit the Jolly Roger. 

Opening carefully her door, she pops her head and inspects the corridor: it’s empty, she can go. She closes her door silently and follows the hall on her tip toes, a knife in her right hand just in case she stumbles on drunk pirates. 

She finds the kitchen quite easily; she had already seen it when Hook has led her to his quarters. 

“God bless.” 

Jam, bacon, rice, potatoes, and rum, she’s in heaven. She prepares herself slices of bread, pours a little bit of everything in it, and eats in silence, sipping silently her rum on the counter. 

So, you’re in the Enchanted Forest, on Captain Hook’s ship, the Queen thinks you’re a great sorceress and therefore wants to kill you, Captain Hook wants you to help him get his revenge, magic is real, no better: you’re basically stuck here forever; thri-lling. 

She difficulty swallows, blocked throat, and takes another mouthful of the spicy licker. Her gaze loses itself on her surroundings then, and for the first time since she put a foot on this ship, she realizes how peaceful it is. 

From the window, she can see gentle waves crashing against the wood, and the slow motion cradles her. 

“Oh, look at that. What a beautiful view.” 

She’s about to say yes when she gathers this isn’t Hook’s voice. Hastily shifting towards the stranger, she feels a hand cup her shoulder. 

A whistle.

“Guys, I found the Captain’s slut.”


	4. Monachopsis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you are uncomfortable with the mention of rape (it will be slightly alluded, but in no way described and nobody will get raped) you might want to skip the parts surrounded by a “¤”. After it, you are safe.

July the 2nd, 11:30pm, 1788.

In the 28 years of her existence, Emma Swan has had to save her ass multiple times. 

Therefore, when three drunk pirates take a step into the kitchen, she grabs the knife under her skirt and threatens them with it. 

Adrenaline turns her fear into bravery and keeps her from paying attention to the fact that in now way will she be able to beat them alone. 

¤

“Oh come on lass, you’ll just have to open your legs.” His voice is the most disgusting sound she has heard of her life. 

“Get the fuck out of here,” she hisses, confident. 

So far from her actual mindset, from the panic rising in her chest and menacing to take her over. 

“Have you heard her Rogers ?” a grass chuckle, “she’s on our bloody ship and she’s the one telling us to go to hell.” 

If Captain Hook was far from the cliché pirate she had in mind, those ones were fitting each aspects : stomach full with beer, not that much hair on their scalp, clothes smelling from a meter away, lubric glimmer in their eyes. 

“If you think I’m not going to fucking stab you, you’re wrong,” she threatens again, and she’s impressed by the certain tone of her voice. 

She’d fool herself, mind you. 

One second. She holds back her breath as they stand still, seem to consider her. 

And then, everything goes to hell. 

She misses the silence signal between them, so concentrated on her hold over the blade. Alcohol makes her weaker and them quicker, those bastards. 

While one grabs her wrist, his strength forcing her to let go of her weapon, another takes her underneath her armpits. The last one lifts her legs. 

“Help!” she screams as they lay her on a table in the middle of the room. 

She’s not sure whether somebody is going to save her or go along with it and take advantage of her weakness. Anyway, she can’t bring herself to give up, instead tries to kick them in their sensitive area, still moving by the strength of despair. 

They are incredibly heavy, she fails. 

“Help!” 

She yells louder, grazing her vocal cord in the process, anxiety hugging her tightly. In her mind, souvenirs pass before her eyes as one pulls up her dress. 

She’s 13, it’s a friday night and her foster mother isn’t home. 

There’s a hand in the darkness, fingers along her thighs. There are her screams and his whisper against her jaw, “be quiet”. 

There’s her fear of sleeping in the dark since then. 

¤ 

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” 

Her eyes, that she didn’t know she had closed, snap open and fall on another man’s face. 

“Hook,” her whisper of relief fills the air as the pirates stop any activity and stare mortified at their Captain. 

And what a captain: he looks terrifying, blue eyes storming and jaw clenched, the line of his eyebrows leaving a terrible shadow over them, his hand closed in a fist, only wearing his pants and a dark shirt. 

Behind him, she makes out Rupert’s figure, his weary eyes on her face.

“Leave her alone,” the older man hisses, and it’s enough to cause them to put her down on the table and lower their head. 

She wheezes, lets her head rest on the wooden surface, tears at the edges of her very eyes. 

The rest she doesn’t see. Barely hears. 

“...If I ever, ever, see one of you trying to hurt this lady in any way, I’ll cut your balls off. You may send the message to the rest of the crew. Have I been heard?” 

Hook’s voice is a whispered threat she doesn’t understand completely, staring at the ceiling instead, her thoughts turned into clouds. Open mouth and wide eyes, she’s zoning out. 

It’s a dark place, her mind. It freaks her out to stay there, which is why she’s always doing something. 

Cutting her in her thoughts, a hand finds her shoulder and she shudders, ready to run. 

“Ahoy little lass, the sun is shining. So am I.” 

Her lost gaze falls on a crumbled face, recognize the man who has already saved her today, and she greets him with a smile. 

“You’re crying, little lass,” he tells her as he passes an arm beneath her knees. 

“What the fuck, I’m not crying at all.” 

She leans her head on his shoulder. It eases her headache, makes her feel inexplicably lighter. He smells like he has just made a chocolate cake; it’s comforting. 

“Rupert, hurry up. We haven’t got all night,” stammers Hook’s voice behind, but she hasn’t got enough strength to find him annoying. 

Rupert looks at her through his almost non existent eyelashes, and there’s this pity in his eyes she never wants to see again. 

“It’s raining,” she explains after a few seconds, him carrying her out of the door. 

“It can’t be raining in my ship,” retorts Hook’s voice behind them, to which she rolls her eyes.

She pouts. “Ah, it’s the ocean then.” 

He pushes the door to Captain’s quarters, she’s not complaining. He puts her down softly on the sheets and leaves her there. One hand brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, the concern is evident on his face. I told ya to be careful little lass.

She watches as Hook sits at his desk, probably feeling like he has done enough and Rupert leaves the room after a “Take care of her” quite distant.

She stares at the ceiling then, her respiration getting thicker and the room seems to spin and her ears are ringing and,- 

-the silence strangles her, makes her vision blurry,-

“Hook?” she calls, and it’s practically a beg. 

He doesn’t answer right away. She counts in her head; one, two, three, breathe, breathe, brea- 

She breaks down. 

The feelings she has been pushing away since this whole mess started come together to eat her alive: despair, sadness, incomprehension, being far away from home. 

It’s ugly. 

It’s tears and sobs and muffled sentences in his pillow, and her shaking body, and this feeling of extreme vulnerability. 

She hates herself for letting him see that she’s fucking lost and she has no idea how to get through this. 

She feels his touch on her back, an awkward attempt at making her feel better, and if Captain Hook is trying to cheer her up what the fuck even is her life? 

“It’s okay love.” 

She shifts then, facing him through her tears, and taken by an impulse she hastily grabs his hand.

“Give me- give me paper, an-and a pen,” she stammers, voice broken. 

His incredulity is evident but he doesn’t seem to question her request that much and searches for her goods in his drawer. Meanwhile, she makes an effort to breathe more calmly, tears still rolling on her cheeks but the sobs muffled. He hands them to her a few seconds afterwards, blue eyes unconvinced. 

Relief washes over her; she still has a way to handle it. It should keep her going. 

Licking her lips, she sits up in his bed, back leaning against the wall, and looks over to him. He’s facing her, from the other side of the room, infinitely intrigued by her behavior, brows arched and mouth slightly open. 

“Don’t move,” she orders him, tone sure again. 

He stares at her in defiance. “Oh, I prefer you like that, Swan.” 

(It makes her smile.) 

She draws quickly, supple fingers and agility, the greyish lines soon framing a face, and cuts at his waistband. She takes more time on the eyes, trying to reveal their depth, their pugnacity. 

.  
June 30th, 3am. 

Once over, it seems like her breakdown was just a dream; head held high, small smirk on her face as she signs her work and hands it to him.

He seems fucking bewitched by her gift. 

(She’s almost sure she saw his cheeks turn red.) 

.  
July 3rd-July 20th. 

They never talk about it again. 

She attempts at planning an escape but she realizes soon enough that as long as she’s on this ship, she possesses a rare safety. Once in the wildness of a world she doesn’t know, she will be left on her own. 

At first she avoids Hook on the ship, tries to get used to her new life. She discovers the joy of carrying bags of food heavier than herself, washing her clothes with her hands and cold water, eating in community with a good dozens of rude pirates. 

The crew doesn’t even dare to give her a look, lowering their heads as they pass her by, and she realizes how much Hook is feared. 

Except for Rupert. Hook’s second man, she learns. The man in charge if he’s not here. 

Rupert is everything she never knew she needed; for the first time in her life, she finds a father figure. 

He greets her every morning with a “Ahoy little lass, the sun is shining. So am I.” and a warm kiss on her cheek. 

He brings her books and candies, always has a gift for her when they make a stop call. He smells like childhood and innocence. 

“Ah, ya’re never going to believe me, little lass, but I never got married. The truth I’m saying! I think it’s because the captain would hate me if I dared to leave him. He’s a little bit like my son, ya know.” 

The relationship between the two men isn’t an easy one but it’s based on a true friendship and mutual respect. 

.

Sleep is hard. Sleep is haunted by memories and nightmares of her staying here forever. 

She wouldn’t be able to honestly say that she managed to accommodate herself to this new world but she’s slowly coming to the realization that this all mess isn’t some sick joke. 

She tries to stay as busy as she can, spends as much time as possible at Rupert’s side; as soon as she rests, thoughts strangle her. Very varied thoughts; from Hook’s revenge to magic, to pretending to be a witch (this is going to backfire Emma, you’ll regret this), from her ticket home. 

Everything is a mess and so is she. 

. 

July 22th,7pm. 

A knock on her door. 

“Hello, mister Smee,” she greets the new arrival. 

Smee has actually been one of the few persons on this damn ship to talk to her and therefore, she kind of likes his presence. 

He’s standing on her doorway, cheeks red, hands joined together.

“The captain is sending me to tell you that we’re making a port of call tonight. Would you mind joining us?” he very rapidly articulates. 

She’s taken off guards: they have never invited her before. Wide eyes, she considers him, waits for Hook to appear with a “gotcha love” but nothing happens.

“Well,” she starts, “it can’t be a bad idea.” 

“Great!” answers as hastily Smee, “We’re leaving at 8pm, be ready. We will wait for you on deck.” 

.

8pm.

“Little lass, you’re not joining us at the Captain’s table?” 

She’s furious. She thought her desire to stab Hook in the chest and dance on his ashes had disappeared, but as he rubs himself on two wenches at the other side of the tavern, she’s surprised by the intensity of her hatred. 

Eyes storming, she reports her attention to Rupert. 

“Why the fuck would he bring me with him just to leave me in my corner?” she hisses, hands fisting. 

There’s a grimace on Rupert’s face as he scratches his head. 

“I don’t know, little lass. With all due respect, the captain can be a perfect idiot sometimes.” 

He actually steals her a little scoff, a grin overtaking her face. 

An instant and her rage is back, burning more intensely in her chest.

“I’ll kill him, one day,” she mutters, contemptuous and contemplative. 

The pirate offers her a last pitiful smile before abandoning her, and she’s left with her corset and a chop of beer. She hates beer. 

She dwells on her situation, looking up to Hook to give him her cruelest gaze, plays with her fingers.

Why the fuck are you here ? You’re not even taking advantage of the situation to get informations. 

“Damn right.” And with those last words, she stands up. 

Ignoring the slight anxiousness blocking her throat, she makes her way to the Captain’s table, the biggest one in the middle of the room obviously, and grabs what she wants. 

“You two,” she starts, her sentence directed to the two wenches drowning Hook in their cleavage, “you get the hell out of here, I have to talk to the Captain.” 

He bites his lips as an answer, smirking. The two wenches however give her the most murderous look and doesn’t seem inclined to move. 

“Haven’t you heard what the lass said? You two out of here, we need to talk business.” 

.

10pm.

“Where are we going ?” she snaps directly once their ass is put on chairs in a corner of the tavern. 

He chuckles, visibly amused by her aggressivity and it simply causes her to want to punch him once again. 

“That’s quite the vast question, if you ask me, and since you’re asking me, let me elaborate. Who really knows where they are going? We’re navigating through life, perhaps not making any sense and yet we g-” 

Her boot crushes his manhood under the table and his face takes a very lovely red hue. He seems ready to kill her, teeth biting his upper lips, and she grins. 

“Answer me if you want to have any children in the future,” she ghastly whispers. 

He considers her for a few seconds, eyes gazing at her face, scrutinizing each ounce of her skin, and she’s glad the candles don’t give away the birthing blush of her cheeks. 

He sighs.

“Remember what I said about my nemesis being the Dark One?” she nods, “well, the only way to kill him is through a rare weapon. Of bloody course, he has kept it with him. Therefore, the only way to kill him would be to create a weapon as powerful as his own.” 

There’s something mesmerizing about the way he talks about his revenge; the passion causes a vein to pop on his temple, the turmoil in his eyes, the gravity of his tone. 

“What did he do to you?” Her question is a whisper for them both, isolated in the back of this almost empty tavern.

Smells of beer and dirtiness, cheap candles, that he bloody hates, tracing shadows on their face. 

It’s almost intimate. 

She doesn’t really expect him to answer, has discovered during those few days that Hook is as secretive as she is. 

“He took my hand.” 

She arches her brow, doesn’t say a word; he knows she’s no fool. 

He eyes her, torn, and sighs. 

“He killed my love.” 

“Oh.” 

Fuck. It was so much easier to hate him when she didn’t know this. How will she want to stab now that she knows he’s trying to avenge a lover? 

This is so fucked up. 

“I’m sorry,” she quickly whispers, words stumbling on each others. 

His lips spread, senseless movement, and her throat gets tight. The shadows on his face only seem to accentuate his melancholia and her stomach twists. 

A moment passes. 

He taps his fingers on the table, licks his lips. “So, Swan, would you care to enlighten me on something ?” he inquires, all charms out again.

She nods, “Yeah,” waits for him to spit it out. 

“When were you going to admit that you’re no witch?” 

Shit. 

Oh, the two azul blades falling on her. A cold shower. 

Her hands close themselves on the wood, anxiety strangling her. 

“How long have you known?” she whispers between her teeth, knowing it’d be stupid to lie again. 

He takes a sip of rum. “Since the beginning, Swan.” 

She frowns; what the fuck is he trying to tell her? 

“I was just waiting to see how long you’d be able to lie to my face.” 

She bends over the table, still unable to understand his manner of thinking. “Then why did you keep me? Why saving me? What makes me so useful?” 

“Because you’re a gorgeous lass,” he smirks, all teeth out, biting sinfully his lower lips. 

Her fist hits the table, some heads turning towards them. “Tell me the truth, Hook,” she bites back, anger making her blood boil. 

“That, Swan,” he starts, voice as soft as velvet, “is your punishment for lying to me.” 

A smile. And then he stands up.

Emma grabs his wrist, making him bend towards her, barely a few centimeters separating their faces. 

“Tell me,” she tries again. 

He raises one brow, considers her, and… leaves a kiss on her temple. A burn on the thin skin, it tingles. 

Her fingers unclasp themselves, frozen, as she stares in shock at the black leathered bastard fading out in the dimness. 

. 

July 24th, 12am.

“We’re stopping by a cave, this afternoon,” whispers Hook over their lunch: mashed potatoes and chicken, a real festin. 

Emma looks up, fork in her mouth, other hand drawing the lines of the wooden table to ease her mind. It seems, in this realm, the only furniture are wooden tables, and the commune cafeteria doesn’t infringe with the rule. 

Two days without a word from him, not that she has tried to engage into conversation. She’s mad at him, and now he’s able to talk again. 

“Why does this concern me?” she curtly inquires, brow raised. 

Go fuck yourself Hook. 

Her pugnacity makes him smile, she’s even more angry. 

“A magical cave, Swan. Hiding undiscovered wonders and perhaps, a way to get you home.” 

His words are satin against her skin; still, her blood boils. She hates how easily he seems to understand her motivation. 

She licks her lips, bites her mouth’s interior. “Why am I useful?” she murmurs too, and she’s pretty sure they look like lovers from afar. 

Why did you save me if there was nothing for you in return?

In the back of the commune cafeteria, an oil lamp separating them. He’s so close she can smell his perfume; something awfully aristocratic, distinguished, spices and flowers married together. 

He takes his sweet time to answer, his fingers reaching for a strand of her hair falling in front of her eyes. He puts it back behind her ear, thumbs brushing her cheek; she tenses.

Attracted to Captain fucking Hook? Good job. 

He bends over the table then, and she holds her breath. 

“I need someone to push in front of me in case I’m in danger,” he breathes in her ear, and it strangely sounds like words of love. 

.

2pm. 

To say she has never been graced by such view is a fucking understatement. 

“Fucking hell,” she exclaims as they enter the cave, eyes open wide. 

I need to draw this, is her first thought. 

The cave is everything a fairytale cave would be in your mind: awfully large, rocks framing walls and the ground. However, not simple rocks; they are fluorescent and twinkle, hundreds of hues of sparkles. The lowest ones are tinted blue and purple, and as you lift your head, the colors get warmer; timid yellow metamorphosing into a bright orange. The top ones obviously are hot red, seem to deliver a sweet heat over their heads, fallen stars. 

“Are those meteorites?” she asks, but Hook is already searching through the marvels on the ground. 

From silver to gold, many objects lay peacefully there, offered to passenger's eyes. 

“Meteorites?” repeats the pirate Captain, back facing her, “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about Swan.” 

It hits her: modern world discoveries. “Never mind.” 

She eyes the marvels and takes careful step towards them while Hook takes no measure and fervently looks. 

“You’re going to make me believe such tresors are here and nobody comes steal them?” she demands as she lifts a lamp far too similar to the Aladin’s one. 

“In fact,” he starts, and she avoids a book he throws in his back; what a fucking idiot, “this cave is watched by someone you really don’t want to face.” 

Fears creep in. “And where is that someone?” 

His smile as he looks back, the intensity of his gaze striking her. “At the Queen’s for their tea.” 

She laughs, and it sounds a lot like she’s freaking out. “Fucking great.”

Inhaling deeply, she examines her surroundings. Lamps, silverware, unidentified objects, so-

Letters grab her eyes. Something bursts into her chest. 

It can’t be...can it?

“Once upon a time,” she reads out loud, wide-eyed, heart rate increasing. 

A second to reflect, to breath and think. 

And then, forgetting to give a fuck and run towards it. Her steps are uneasy, clumsy, frenetic. She forgets to collect her thoughts, dives instead further in the pile of wealth. 

Tears burn her eyes; she’s going home. After two weeks in this world where nothing makes sense, the light at the end of the tunnel is blinding. 

Stretching her fingers, she reaches for the book, seemingly taunting her with its perfectly closed cover. 

Almost, not quite enough. 

A hand grabs her by the wrist, pulls her towards a body. 

“What the fuck are y-” she curses, and she’s about to fucking murder Hook, obviously who else, when he covers her mouth with his hand, securing her tighter between his arms.

“Maleficent is back. Not a word,” he whispers in her hair, hot cloud among her blonde curls.


	5. Efflorescence

July 24th, 2:20pm. 

She can’t breathe. 

Not when his hand is on her waist and his breath is playing with her hair, and she can feel the small pressure of his hook lower, resting against her leg, and she’s so overwhelmingly surrounded by him that she might collapse. 

Thanks god for the armoire behind my back. 

His scent fills her lungs, intoxicating each cells of hers, and she wonders how the fuck does he smell this good in the coat he wears everyday. 

His scruff brushes the top of her forehead, leaves there a burn, but he doesn’t seem the slightest perturbed by their proximity. 

“Who is Maleficent?”, she whispers, barely audibly, and he groans. 

“Bloody hell, be quiet.” A pause, her darting him with storming eyes, “She’s a sorceress, a very powerful one. She can transform herself in a-” 

He stops then, seems to notice something, and anxiety causes her heartbeats to be frantic. 

“Hook, in what?” she hisses.

A second. His oceans concentrated on a point behind her back. 

He grips on her hand. Her heart skips a beat. 

“Run,” he yells, and she wants to remind him that they are trying to be quiet, “run as fast as you can and never look back.” 

She’s awfully struck by the seriousness of his voice but can't think too much about it, his hand dragging her. His grip is strong on her palm, and she can’t help but throw her legs in front of her. Adrenaline invades her, instincts taking over. 

They run in the middle of the pile of marvels towards the entrance of the cave. They step on pointy things but they are quite synchronised and manage to cross half of the cave in less than a minute. 

That is, until she suddenly can’t move. She looks back, sees her dress is caught beneath shiny pebbles. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Hook,” she cries, his fingers inadvertently letting go of hers. 

He shifts towards her, his blue eyes confessing his own anxiety. But they do not stay for too long on her face, gaze instead behind her back, which only causes her to turn her head too.

“What the f-”

In front of her, a fucking dragon in flesh and bones, high as 10 meters, fluorescent green eyes gazing at her and reflective scales for jewellery. 

“I’m going to faint,” is all she manages to articulate, horrified. 

The next thing she knows is that the dragon spits fire and a hand is hastily trying to free her dress. 

“Swan!” The words are distant, as if they were coming from another realm, and her ears are ringing. “Swan!” 

A breath, something seemingly weighting on her chest, compressing it. From the corner of her eyes, she sees a man jump in front of her. 

She frowns. “Hook?” 

What the fuck is he doing here? What about his precious revenge?

He’s in danger.

“Fuck,” she mumbles as she shakes her head. 

She slaps her cheeks, concentrates herself on her respiration and tries to identifying a scent; it always helps her to get back to reality. She catches sulfur, and sweat, and amidst all of these putrefaction, the captain’s perfume. 

“Hey,” suddenly yells Hook, and she’d murder him if this dragon hadn’t already signed up for the job, “You wanna kill a human? You wanna kill a human? Go ahead, I’m the worst one around here!” 

The fucker is taunting Maleficent, arms spread open high, and she doesn’t seem happy about it, teeth showing on the dark scales. There’s a flash of light before her eyes, and then the howl she can not hold back.

“Hook!” 

Emma bends, grips the first object she can obtain, throws it as hard as she can on the creature. The result is pathetic, Maleficent doesn’t even seem to notice it and she’s left frustrated as ever. 

In front of her, Hook is still humping up and down on his feet, visibly not concerned about the fact that he’s probably going to get roasted. 

“What happened to you using me as your armor,” she hisses, sweat hurtling down her back and temples. 

Her brain is promptly thinking, attempting at finding a solution.

She’s too slow. 

The dragon takes a deep breath and spits an ocean of flames.

She closes her eyes, frozen, heart in her sleeves.

(She wishes he had thrown her in front of him like foreseen.) 

. 

July 25th, 6am. 

It tickles, in her hand. 

She opens her eyes, slowly, the first rays of sunlight hitting her cornea. Her vision blurry by sleep, she makes out in front of her grass dusted by morning dews, translucide pearls among this infinity of green. It’s beautiful and it smells familiar; a fresh fragrance, flowery and sweet. 

Lowering her gaze, she discerns a small fox, crimson pelage, licking the inside of her palm; she tries to reach for his ears, childishly amused, but he runs away. 

Eventually, as she lifts herself on one elbow to get a better view, she realizes her whole body aches. She groans, wincing in pain.

“Where the fuck am I?” 

Her exhausted eyes dance, search for a hint, something, and fall on a lifeless body laying next to her. 

Oh. Oh. 

“Hook?” she whispers, suddenly out of breath. 

Memories violently hit her and her heart rate increases. 

How the fuck did we leave this cave and end up here ? 

Sitting up, she moves difficulty, her dress soaked by the dew, and reaches for Hook’s shoulder; she can only see the back of his head, the brown tousled hair contrasting with the grass. She’s fucking horrified at the thought of what she might see, but she knows she has to. 

Inhale, exhale, she draws on her resources to shift his body on his back. He’s far heavier than he looks like. 

An effort and she manages to change his position, his boneless self spreading out next to her. Apprehensively, she risks a look at his face. 

“Oh.” 

On his beautiful features, no terrible burns, no bruises; just the paleness of his skin and the delicate shadow of his eyelashes on his cheeks, the deep pink of his lips. And the slight movement of his back, indicating that he hasn’t die on her. 

A relief she doesn’t quite understand overtakes her and a timid smile illuminates her face. 

There’s no explanation but she can’t bring herself to care. 

Grinning, god bless whatever gods above, she smacks his left cheek, the one with the little scar. His reaction doesn’t disappoint her. 

“Bloody hell!” he mutters, opening his eyes in a fraction of second.

He rapidly leans on one elbow, his other palm checking his face, and scowls to her greatest amusement. 

“Where the bloody are we?” 

A second, one look at her. 

“Did you just hit me?” 

Silence, pause, eyebrow arching. 

“How the bloody hell did we end up there?” 

Him sitting up, cursing after the wetness of his pillow. 

“Are you going to stare at my devilishly handsome charms for much longer or are you going to answer my questions?” 

She’s not listening; the sun is rising, the sky slipping in a beautiful dress made of mauve, magenta and burgundy feathers. The view takes her breath away. 

There’s a grin at her side. She shifts, watches as he stands up, dusting the blades of grass off his coat. 

“You’re a funny lass, Swan.” 

.

 

7am. 

She doesn’t tell him the meadow where they have awoken is the same one where she first appeared; an old friend saying hello, reminding her that she’s not where she’s supposed to be, that there’s no such thing as home. Despite everything, she still doesn’t trust Hook completely, isn’t sure she ever will. 

Hook knows places and guides her to a small bakery for breakfast, we’ll need our stomach full to understand what happened there love, and the fact of taking the same journey as two weeks ago causes her stomach to be tied in knots. Everything is still so vivid in her mind, yet it seems like years ago. 

This time, she takes time to notice the rows of little houses with their multi colors roof; it’s a heartwarming sight. 

Eventually, wet shoes and green stains on her dress, they arrive in front of the bakery. 

Hook pushes the French door and lets her walk in first, a gentleman, and the mystery around him makes her see red. She doesn’t know how to act around him; one second soft as velvet and gazing at her with sympathy, the next one this liquid fire in his eyes, this hunger for revenge, for blood. 

The little shop is weirdly similar to Paris’s bakery where she had eaten during her trip in the City of Lights; circular small tables of a pale brown, white chairs around them. The walls are lavender and the ground of shining tiles. 

So out of time. For a minute, she’s convinced to be back in her world, and the thought causes both joy and yearning. 

“Come on Swan,” whispers a husky voice next to her, his hand grabbing her fingers, “Granny will bring us some pastries.” 

They sit in silence at a table close to the wall; there are already loads of bread in a small bucket and a jar of marmalade. From the color, the flavour must be apricots. 

“It’s crazy,” she hears herself murmur. 

“I doubt that you’ve never seen any bread and preserve before, Swan,” retorts Hook, sitting in front of her. 

Don’t sass me Captain. 

She raises one brow, slightly amused. “You wouldn’t understand.” 

The pirate bends over the table, smirking, but it doesn’t quite reach the eyes. “If you’d trust me with your burden, perhaps I could.” 

“My burden?” she repeats, and she tries to look as indifferent as possible. 

He sits back in his chair, fingers tapping against the wood, and bites his lower lips as he always does when he’s trying to get through her. 

“Your behavior, Swan. I’m a gentleman, so I never commented on it-”

“Which is why, now you’re going to comment on it,” she cuts him, irritation building in her chest. 

She doesn’t like where this is going. 

Don’t need judgements from Captain fucking Hook. 

“-anyway, your reaction when you saw Maleficent in her dragon form, like you had never seen any magic in your whole life, was quite revelating. To tell you the truth, you seem really out of place, Swan.” 

Her heart misses a beat. 

(She knows he doesn’t mean it like that, but hearing those words make her realize she has never had a place for herself, an assigned spot, no don’t sit there it’s Emma’s place.)

“Of course I seem out of place, I’m not in my realm,” she pledges, cheek covered in pink, but he’s far too perceptive. 

“No no, Swan. We both know it’s not a realm question,” he articulates, and she hates the glimmer she discerns on the soft waves of his oceans. 

Her throat gets tight as he bends again towards her, takes her hand in his, and she’s probably killing him with her eyes. 

He begins an invisible drawing over her open palm. “In fact, stop me if I’m wrong, but what I believe is that you’re out of your world.” 

The seriousness of his tone contrasts with the softness of his fingers tracing the lines of her palm. 

She inhales,- 

_“ You’re going to meet a man, soon. Tomorrow, perhaps,...He’s going to love you very much, and so will you. But-”_

Flashes before her eyes : Ruby’s prediction, no, no, no prediction, nonsense. This doesn’t make any sense, this is horseshit, remember Emma, horseshit. 

“Swan, are you alright?” Hook’s voice brings her back to reality, and she hastily removes her hand from his grip. 

He stares at her then, and it fucking kills her because he looks disappointed, hurt. 

She wants to apologize but she’s cut by an old woman putting in front of them plates of pastries, and her attention is stolen. Once again, the resemblance with French viennoiseries is striking. She raises her chin, stares at the woman.

Takes her chance. 

“Excuse me, ma’am, but have you ever been to France?” she inquires, royally ignoring Hook’s raised eyebrow. 

“France? I’m afraid I don’t know this place young lady, but call me Granny.” 

She doesn’t miss how Granny looks back in recognition. This woman has travelled through times and world. She needs to talk to her. 

“France?” asks Hook once the lady is further, “I’ve travelled everywhere in this land and I’ve never encountered such name.” 

Suspicion is palpable in his voice. The fucker knows he’s right about everything. 

“Okay,” she enunciates after a small silence “ yes, you’re right Hook: I’m not a part of your world.” 

Happy?

A look at him, to discover that he hasn’t got a stupid smirk on as usual but this gleam in his eyes; empathy. 

I’ve never been a part of anything. 

“Swan, I,” he starts, but she stops him with a hand gesture. 

“Save your breath, I’m not in the mood.” 

She wishes she could be softer with him, because she knows him. She knows he’s lost among an ocean of darkness and he has no idea how to reach the light. And he’s practically begging her to give him something to hold onto, and she’s refusing him it all. 

Her fingers tremble around the hot cocoa mug Granny gave her, and she feels like like she’s drowning too. 

. 

8:30am. 

“I’ve got to go to the toilets,” she tells him after thirty minutes of dead silence. 

They have been eating their breakfast without saying a word, both far too proud, relishing instead on the amount of sweet and butter they were tasting. 

“That’s okay, Swan. I’ll wait for you outside.” 

It’s odd, this intimacy between them, the routine; they act like an old couple and she’s not sure of her feelings towards this idea. 

With his last words, he stands up, brushes the crumbs off his leather pants, puts coin on Granny’s counter, and walks away, all swagger out. 

She’s not ready to admit it to herself but when he’s like that, she finds him endearing. 

She waits for him to lean against the French window and makes her way to the counter where the old lady is counting her wealth. 

She opens her mouth, searching for her words and-

“You want to know if you can get home?” asks her the old lady, but it doesn’t sound much like a question to her. 

Taken aback, Emma still nods. 

I’m getting from surprise to surprise today. 

“The answer you’re looking for is no,” Granny finally states, and it leaves her mouth open. 

In a sentence, this woman has shattered all of her dreams. 

“This can’t be true,” she retorts, eyes storming and white phalanges on the counter. 

Her despair causes the woman to sigh and let go of her coins. Granny grabs her hand then, and looks straight into her soul. 

“Listen to me, lass. I’ve been in this world for about five years now and I still haven’t found a way to go back, and it’s not like I have no reason to go back: my little Ruby, taking care of the shop by herself…” 

“Ruby Red?” Emma cuts her, eyes open wide.

“How do you know her?” inquires Granny.

“Before-, before this whole nonsense I’ve been to your hotel. I’ve rented a room there. And then, I opened a book and I-” 

The other woman grips harder on her hand, seems on the edge, and particularly anxious.

“Listen girl, there’s no way to go back. No way,” and she insists on the last words.

Something is off, she sounds far too sure of herself. 

“You’re lying,” Emma whispers between her teeth, “and I have no idea why you’d lie about this, but you’re apparently very cautious,” a look, the little pearls of sweat on the old woman’s face. And then the serment: “I’ll found my way back by myself.” 

She’s not really sure who she’s trying to convince.


	6. Nepenthe

July the 25th, 12am. 

 

“Magic.” 

 

“Okay, now you’re totally out of your mind, Hook.” 

 

“You’re the one out of your mind if you think there’s a ‘logical’ explanation behind this.” 

 

He’s gloriously pissing her off, the worst part being that she knows he’s right. She’s just unwilling to admit it to herself. 

 

After a good walk, lunch, seeing Rupert again, and being graced by the warmest hug of her existence, _ “Ahoy little lass, the sun is shining. So am I.” _ , the Captain in question rolling his eyes before hugging at his turn the old man, they are both sitting on his parquet floor, facing each other. Between them, his bottle of rum and glasses he’s filling, because _ it’s never too early for rum. _

 

“Of course there is a logical explanation,” she snaps back, but she’s not angry. 

 

In fact, she’s quite desperate to convince them both of the non magical aspect of the situation; magic freaks her out. 

 

He sighs, clearly annoyed. “Swan, how would we have escaped this cave without magic? Give me one way, and I’ll pretend you’re right.” 

 

She bites her lips, looks down, and collects her thoughts. 

 

Ten seconds. 

 

“Okay.” His victory. “You might be right on that one,” she quickly mumbles. 

 

Dimples show on his cheeks, it’s endearing. 

 

“I’m always right,” he swaggers, and her desire to punch him as hard as she can is back. 

 

He hands her the bronze liquid, and their fingers brush; perhaps on purpose. She thanks him with her eyes. 

 

“To more adventures, Swan,” he cheers, and her heart misses a beat. 

 

Everything is slowly becoming more and more familiar, pleasing, comfortable, and it’s tearing her apart. 

 

She swallows down. “To more adventures, Captain.” 

 

She drinks a mouthful, lets the alcohol trace a path in her throat, burning everything down; a sunflower blooms in her chest. 

 

“So,” he starts again, and his position is so intolerable; one knee up, the other legs bent underneath, “there definitely was magic involved in our survival, the question being: why the bloody hell would Maleficent save us from her own flames?” 

 

She loves how alcohol colors his cheeks, abandons there a bit of heat. 

 

“Someone we haven’t seen might have saved us,” she tries, but his expression signifies that he isn’t the slightest convinced, “someone with light magic.” 

 

There’s a shift in his expression, as if he’s remembering something. He bites the inside of his mouth, scratches his neck; he’s nervous, she has learned it over time. 

 

It’s odd, how little time she has spent here and how much they have managed to get to know each other. 

 

“Perhaps you’re right,” he acknowledges, “but I think we know that someone.” 

 

She frowns, confused. “Who would that be?” 

 

A pause, him considering her through his curled eyelashes, the intensity of his gaze which steals her breath away. 

 

“You.” 

 

She chokes on her drink. 

 

She opens her mouth, twice, tries to comprehend his manner of thinking, because this doesn’t make any sense. This is pure bullshit. 

 

Her? Magic? Horseshit. 

 

There’s nothing magical about her; she has nothing to offer. 

 

“Are you daft, Hook?” is all she manages to hiss, cloudy eyes. 

 

His own are soft over her figure, almost tender, and it’s upsetting. 

 

“I’ve been having suspicions over you detaining magic since you tried to kill me, Swan,” he starts and stands up, stretching his legs. 

 

She listens, heart at the very edges of her eyes. “Truth to be told, against that armoire, I was ready to kill you,” he simply states, and her throat gets tighter, “But I stopped; you remember, I imagine.” 

 

“I do,” she doesn’t mean it to sound so resentful. 

 

He navigates through his room, seems to appreciate the cracks of the wood beneath his feet, avoids at all cost her eyes. 

 

“Well, this is probably going to sound harsh,”  _ well go ahead, I wasn’t planning on marrying you anyway,  _ “but I didn’t stop because I was urged by empathy.” 

 

It’s funny how everything gets overwhelming, from his scent poisoning her lungs, to the coldness of her glass between her fingers. Her own breath becomes thicker. 

 

“In fact, Swan, that day, your touch burned my skin,” and with that, he turns around, leans on the armoire, dives into her gaze. 

 

He slowly pulls back his sleeve, revealing his forearm. The skin is still clearly bruised, thin fingers traced there. 

 

And she, has stopped breathing, horrified, mortified, ready to run and never look back. 

 

And instead, she holds on to the only emotion who actually makes sense: anger. 

 

“So that’s why you kept me, because you were planning on making me take over control of my magic to help you get your precious revenge,” she spits, and stands up, her whole body shaking with wrath. 

 

“That would have been quite the hazardous bet, considering you had you no idea of your powers.” 

 

Her face crumbles, an imaginary hand seemingly strangling her softly. 

 

“You know what Hook? Go to hell.” 

 

She flees. Deserts the battlefield. This whole mess, this  _ whatever _ between them. 

 

.

 

She packs all afternoon, hurtles down the ship in all directions, fills in a bag of food, water, and warm clothes. 

 

Her discussion,  _ argument _ , with Hook has only made things clearer: she needs to get the hell out of this ship as soon as possible. 

 

She needs to come home. 

 

Holding on to this thought helps her keep her head out of the water. 

 

She’s surprised to find out the crew seems eager to help her, probably to Rupert’s initiative but still, collect knives and weapons for her well-being. It warms her heart, causes her to want to run faster. 

 

“Ya’re really leaving us, little lass?” 

 

“I am, Rupert.” 

 

“Oh, little lass, please don’t take the sun with ya.” 

 

There are clumsy kisses on her cheeks and her realizing that those late night conversation over porridge have brought them together more than she ever thought. 

 

It’s a funny feeling, nostalgia. One she knows far too well and not that much. As Rupert disappears being her door, his warm smile engraved in her memory, echoes of his accent haunt her mind. 

 

Nevertheless, she plans on returning to the cave during the night. It’s probably bullshit but she needs to go back there and get a grasp on this damn book. 

 

She’ll return to the safety of her routine, of being a bails bond person with no attachments or feelings. No Rupert’s stories at 11pm and Hook’s wry smile for  _ good morning _ . 

 

_ It’s what’s best for you, Emma.  _

 

(She actually hates herself for how easy it has been to forget about the book. Easy to look into _ his _ eyes and not think at all.) 

 

. 

 

7pm.

 

There’s a knock on her door, and she knows before opening it who it is. 

 

“Hook”, she coldly greets him, and purposely dives into his ocean eyes, jaw clenched. 

 

He’s tense, she gathers, his shoulders held back, brows furrowed. 

 

“A talk, Swan.” 

 

She bites her lips, eyes him with scorn and aversion. 

 

_ Why should I trust you? _

 

He looks absolutely wrecked; dishevelled hair, purple under eyes. Against all odds, it shatters something in her. 

 

“In my quarters.” A pause, his eyes avoiding hers. “Please, Swan.” 

 

_ What the fuck? Did she just hear right? Hook? Saying please?  _

 

She dramatically sighs on purpose and it causes slight dimples to appear on his cheeks.

“You have thirty minutes and then I’m gone, Hook,” she attests and passes before him.

 

She crosses the corridor in a few steps and opens the door herself to his room. She takes possession in a second of his fluffy, easy chair, and pours herself rum. 

 

_ Better make this enjoyable while you’re at it.  _

 

As she sips a first mouthful, she sees him close the door behind him. 

 

Eyeing her, he takes a step into the room. 

 

“You can’t leave,” he stammers, and she chokes on her drink. “Not now, at least,” she hears him continue, but the harm has been done. 

 

She has never heard those words in her life, not directed to her at least. And never with such longing. 

 

“I beg you pardon?” she attacks back, mostly to hide her confusion. 

 

Another pace towards her. “Firstly, it’s bloody nonsense Swan: Maleficent will roast you before you can reach that book,” she opens her mouth, _ how the fuck does he know about that _ , “secondly, you haven’t even told me your real name-”

 

“I don’t know yours either,” she cuts him, and she probably sounded sorer than intended. 

 

She hates how it makes him smile, satisfaction sparkling in his eyes. 

 

“-...Aye, quite true.” 

 

He reaches the desk, the only barrier between them, and offers her his hand. 

 

“Let me introduce myself: my name is Killian Jones, but most people have taken to call me by more colorful moni-” 

 

“Oh shut up Hook, you’re ridiculous,” she snaps, rolling her eyes, and swallows down a small chuckle. 

  
_ What an idiot. _

 

Licking her lips, she ungratefully stands up, smooth her dress before taking his hand in hers. His palm is incredibly warm.

 

“Emma,” she finally admits, relishing in the little stars which birth in his eyes, “Emma Swan.” 

 

It’s completely unfair, how he looks at her; like she’s some sort of magical creature and he’s fucking mesmerized. 

 

“Emma,” he repeats, lets the word curl on his tongue, pampers it. 

 

She doesn’t realize for how long they stand there, lost in each other, until she hears a fuss behind the door and quickly takes away her hand, sitting back to avoid showing her embarrassment. 

 

“Just to make things clear, you revealing your true name isn’t going to make me fall in love with you and give up on the idea of returning home,” she mumbles, head down. 

 

He chuckles. “Allow me to doubt that,” and she looks up to find genuine amusement in his gaze. 

 

_ Not to freak you out, but this is getting out of hand.  _

 

“Twenty-five minutes, Hook,” she remarks to recompose herself. 

 

“I’ve already seduced and slept with a woman in less time.” 

 

She rolls her eyes. “Let me guess, you talked about the stars in her soul and fucked her in some tavern’s bathroom,” and takes a sip of rum.

 

“I’m sorry, Emma.” 

 

She chokes on her drink again, can feel tears tickle her eyes. “Did you learn politeness while I was packing?” 

 

She’s unfair obviously. Hook has saved her life many times since she arrived here, far too many for her own taste, and she’s condemning him to death for taking advantage of the situation. 

 

As if she wouldn’t have done the same. 

 

“You’re not going to hold a grudge over me forever, are you?” he inquires, and beneath the cockiness she tastes insecurities. 

 

“There’s no such thing as forever,” she haughtily replies. 

 

He sighs. “You’re impossible.” 

 

“Let’s make a bet, Hook. If you manage to strike my interest in these last few minutes, I’ll stay for the night,” she leaves the innuendo on purpose, “If you don’t, we’ll never see each other again.” 

 

His gaze over her. “How presumptuous of someone who doesn’t believe in forever to talk about never. In my experience, they are equally just as rare.”

 

A wry smile on her features. “So, what do you say, Captain?” 

 

“Game,” he answers, and her heart misses a beat. 

  
_ May the best one of us win.  _


	7. Gallavant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to a mistake I didnt post the right chapter, here is the good one. Sorry for any misunderstatement and spoilers obviously. I hope you will like it anyway :/

Chapter 6:  
I love that word. Forever. I love that forever doesn’t exist, but we have a word for it anyway, and use it all the time. It’s beautiful and doomed.  
— Viv Albertine 

There’s something enchanting about his eyes but she can’t put her finger on it; instead, she decides to press a pen on paper. 

“Are you really wasting our final moments together by drawing?” he asks her, sitting next to her on his bed. 

One knee up, she focuses on the white sheet. “If I’m wasting anything, it’s my drawing time for your useless ass.” 

He laughs, and it causes the bed to shake slightly. He bends towards her, leaves a hot cloud on the skin of her neck, not touching her, a wet feather. 

She ignores him as she can, goosebumps birthing. “Talking, Hook. You’ll fuck me if I’m convinced you deserve it.” 

He bites his lips, amused. “If there’s one thing I’m going to miss about you-” nobody misses me ever, she wants to tell him, but it would kill the mood, “it’s your profuse swearing.” 

She rolls her eyes. 

“Make yourself useful and take off your vest and shirt, Hook,” she mumbles, done with the features of his head. 

“Ah, I see: this drawing is serving your fantasies. It’s okay, I understand.” 

“For fuck’s sake, shut up.” 

He obeys, tossing his black vest and alike shirt on the floor. He’s quite handsome, she has to admit. She traces the arch of his shoulders, the strength of his arm, his chest hair. 

“So, what do you want to know?” he inquires, and his hand travels on the bed. 

He finds her back, pulls on the lace of her corset, and she doesn’t flinch. 

“Why did you save me?” The sound of her voice surprises her: awfully hoarse. 

She depicts his belt with a tracing stroke, then goes back to his hair: it’s not an easy task to convey how tousled and thick his strands are. 

He pulls harder. “When? From the Queen? From my crew? From Ma-” 

“Oh shut up, I got it: I’m an ungrateful piece of shit,” she states, but the roll of her eyes gives away her annoyance. 

The tightness of her corset against her skin flutters, as his hand carefully unties each knot. 

“To answer honestly, I have no idea why I feel the need to save your stubborn ass. I’d probably be more peaceful without you around,” he hums, his eyes fixed to her cleavage becoming more and more important. 

She attempts at passing the allure of desire in his eyes on to her paper. 

“I think,” he pauses. “I think I want you to be a part of my world.” 

Her hand slides, an ugly outline ruining his hair. “For fuck’s sake,” she mumbles, tries to fade it out with her finger. 

Heart bursting out in her chest. 

His fingers climb up her back, focused, knowingly. 

“Don’t fool yourself Hook, I’ll never be a part of this.” Her tone accepts no answer. 

I’ve never been a part of anything. 

“You could be.” Another loop in her chest. 

She frowns. “Are you trying to convince me to stay forever?” 

“Hmm no, barely to get into your pants, to be bloody honest.” 

She sighs, adds a shadow beneath his lips. “Don’t make this harder, Hook.” 

“There’s only one thing hard in this room, love. That I can assure you.” 

Jesus Christ. “It’s the worst pickup line I have ever heard.” 

The corset falling on her knees, oh, him throwing it on the ground. He shifts, sits behind her, legs surrounding her, presses his chest to her back, and he gently slides her braid aside, discovering her neck. 

“Talking,” she repeats again, and hears him groan beside her. 

“But there are only five minutes left,” he whines, and she’s smiling. 

“Tell me about her, the lover you’re avenging,” she asks him. 

This has the merit of calming him down, the pirate staying silent for a good dozens of seconds.

“Her name was Milah,” he starts, voice low, full of melancholia, and she almost regrets her request. His hand traces a pattern over her neck, and it’s hard to concentrate on the paper. “She was beautiful, fierce. She used to be his wife.” 

“Rumplestiltskin?” 

“Aye, but she fell in love with me, and I with her. She left him and a child behind to follow me on board. Many years later, he found us again, and ripped her heart out. Right in front of me.” 

She stops drawing, heart aching for him. “I’m sorry, Killian.” 

She’s careful with his name, murmurs it with the tenderness required. She’s pretty sure he smiles behind her. A look at the clock. 

“One minute. I’m not convinced yet,” she teases and hears him gasp dramatically. 

“Think I can remedy to that.” 

He presses his chest to her back, his erection evident against the small of her back, and his hand grips on the fabric of her dress. With crisped fingers on her drawing, she holds her breath as he pulls it up, centimeter by centimeter, thumb brushing over her skin. 

She’s not wearing any panties obviously, this world’s notion of undergarments being inexistent. 

He stops at her belly button, his chin leaning against her shoulder to see better. His fingers dance over her stomach, frissons shaking her spine, draw her hips, hurtle down her legs, rapidly brushes where she wants him desperately-

-and stops any movement, her eyes snapping open. 

“It’s been thirty minutes, are you leaving now?” he asks in her ear, voice huskier than usual. 

“Hmm,” she starts, shifting her face to see the glow in his eyes, “I think I’ll consider being here a few minutes more.” 

The wicked grin splitting his face open as his fingers find her sensitive center, discovering her wet and ready, and she groans into his shoulder. 

He traces slow circles over her clit, causes her to clench her finger over the blanket, as he presses himself against her, and moans something inaudible in her hair. 

“Quicker,” she begs him, not giving a fuck anymore. 

He obeys, his finger pressing over her sensitive spot before hurtling down and pushing inside of her, once, twice, and going back to her clit. 

She can’t breath, arms circling his neck from behind as he starts kissing her own, his teeth pulling aside her dress. His tongue traces her curves, leaves permanent marks, as he keeps slipping his fingers in her. 

Her orgasm comes quickly, she’s been wanting him since day one, and she bites his arm to hold back a moan. 

“Bloody hell, I always knew you liked it rough.” 

“For fuck’s sake, shut up.” He’d be the death of hers. 

Taking him off guard, she shifts and faces him as she removes her dress slowly, hands brushing over her own body. He gazes at her, seemingly drunk, and bites his lower lips as she reveals her breasts. 

Unceremoniously, she quickly sits back, legs over his, pressing her wet core against his trousers. She grabs his face, relishing in the harshness of his scruff beneath her palm, and lifts herself to kiss him. 

A finger on her lips. “No kisses, Swan. I’d abhor falling in love with you.” 

The sincerity in his eyes keeps her from chuckling, blocks her throat instead. “Fine.” 

Far more moved than she’d ever admit, she reports her attention to the soft skin of his neck, tracing flowers there, wanders over his Adam’s apple, hurtles down slower, takes his nipple in her mouth. Her fingers trace the dark line from his bellybutton to his pants. 

“Bloody hell,” he pants, and she smiles against his skin. 

She detaches his pants slowly, millimeter by millimeter, reveals the base of his cock. She slides one hand in his trousers, caressing him beneath the fabric, and watches as his eyes flutter shut. 

“Why did you save me?” she asks again, knowing he’s in no way able to think straight.

Her touch is soft over his skin, up and down, up and down, “Swan, you’re-...taking advantage of my weakness,” he murmurs, head leaning against the wall. 

“Answer me,” she orders, and frees his erection from its prison. 

She accidently forget to touch him, and lets instead his cock bend towards her own stomach. 

His eyelids lift and his gaze is exasperated on her smiling features. 

“Because, because-,” his sigh, his hand hovering her own and placing it on his length, “we’re kindred spirits.” 

Her laughter is fake, but her fingers are nimble over his skin, stroking hard. All, of course, to ignore the fact that he’s right.

“For the same reason you saved me with your magic, I’d guess,” he continues, and she frowns. 

“It was an accident,” she mumbles, and abandons his cock.

She lifts herself on her knees. Teases him with her entrance, grazing her wet core over him without giving him what he really desires.

Finally, his gaze hazes over as she slides him inside of her, a small moan escaping them both, his hand finding her ass while she rocks into him slowly. Tenderly. 

His lips travel on her breasts, sucking at her nipples, making them hard and bright pink, causing her to tug at his hair. She inhales deeply his scent, takes all she can get, because there will be no next time. 

She has sworn it to herself. 

His hand comes between them, finds her clit, sends her begging for more on his shoulders. 

. 

11pm. 

He lets her light a candle despite his hatred for them, and she puts it on his nightstand, in her glorious nakedness. 

He watches her from the bed, one arm beneath his hand, the other stroking slightly his lower parts, bare to her eyes too. Quickly, she resumes her way towards him and lays down at his side, head on his chest and arm playing with his chest hair. 

He traces pattern over her arm, his gesture comforting. 

“Have you ever been in love, Emma?” he eventually asks her, voice hoarse, and she lifts her chin to see the subtle shadows drawn by the candlelit on his face. 

A breath. “Yes,” a pause, her collecting herself, “his name was Neal.” 

He moves beneath her, seems to encourage her to tell him more. She’s not one for sharing, though. 

But then his hand hurtles down her stomach and lazy fingers press against her clit, and who is she to deny him anything? 

“I was seventeen”, she begins, voice unsure because of the slow circles on her skin, “and him, twenty-three, which should have alarm me but- ohh,” he has shifted, spreading her body on his mattress and claiming her breasts as his own. 

Lower, his movements are becoming more frantic and she’s soon panting. “I’m listening, Emma,” he mumbles against her skin. 

She inhales deeply. “He left me in prison for his crimes,” a kiss between her breasts, a trail of wet clouds on her stomach, her belly button, and lower, lower,... “Fuck,” she bites her lips as his tongue dances over her clit, makes her see every color of the rainbow, “I was pregnant.” 

He stops, raises his head to catch her eyes, and she sees the deep empathy in his eyes. “I’m sorry, love.” 

She doesn’t expect him to move back up, establishing himself between her thighs, once again hard at her touch. He grabs her face with both hands then, with an utter tenderness she’s not sure she can handle, takes his sweet time to cradle her skin, and kisses her forehead. 

She closes her eyes at the touch; it’s been so long since anyone has shown softness towards her. 

His scruff leaves mark on her skin as he kisses her nose, dawdles on her cheeks, and finally retreats. The blue of his eyes seem captivated by her lips, and her heart is probably not beating anymore. 

His fingers outline her mouth, and something is blooming inside of her. 

He shakes his head then, childishly, doomingly. 

The next second he’s pressing his lips on hers, something desperate, guttural, animal, and she palms his ass to incite him to penetrate her. 

Her ribcage is on the edge of breaking. She kisses him harder, until it’s teeth and tongues fighting, and him sucking on her lower lips and her hands in his tousled hair, and the frenetic rhythm of his hips colliding with hers. 

.  
July the 26th, 1788, 7am. 

There’s always this moment, between sleep and consciousness, where you can feel the cloud separating dreams from reality evaporates itself. You’re then faced with a choice: dive again into the security of your mind or come back to reality and face your responsibilities. 

This particular day, Emma Swan chooses to wake up. 

Timid rays of sunshine dancing over her closed eyelids, she groans, simpers, pulls on the cotton sheets and, finally, opens her eyes. 

She faces the azure wall, narrows her eyes, yawns, and curses herself. 

Good job Emma, you’re going to have to climb on top of him to get the hell out of here. 

Carefully, she turns over in the tiny bed, muscles aching, preparing herself to look at his face and still run as fast as she can from this ship and this world-

“Hook?” 

-and discovers the room empty of any trace of the pirate. 

He can’t be far, she tells herself, fears creeping in. She sits up, throwing her legs out of the bed, sets down her bare feet on the cold parquet, breathes in deeply, stands up, wrapped up in the sheet. 

Eyes the room: she knows what it looks like when someone flees in the middle of the night. She’s been that someone far too many times. 

Pick up the shoes, the shirt, the pants, the keys, a last guilty look at the person you’re leaving and then the wind in your hair. 

A look at his nightstand; he has taken the drawing with him. 

Her heart sinks. He’s gone. 

She feels stupid; bested at her own games. It burns, makes her throat tight, betrayal running in her blood. 

Betrayal? You were going to do the same. 

Her whole body tenses. It still hurts. And his fucking scent reigns in the room. 

.

8am.

“Mister Smee!” she yells, bag in hand and a dauntless glimmer in her eyes, as she strolls down the deck. 

The pirate, hands on the ship’s wheel, startles. 

“Yes, milady?” 

It’s such a beautiful day, sky blue as ever, not a cloud to dance with the sun, and the seagull are playfully flying up high, giggling from time to time. 

The wind tangles her shortest hair around her face, the rest of it being secured in a ponytail, and creases the white of her shirt. She has found black leathered pants in Hook’s armoire, a woman’s pair, and she hopes Milah won’t mind. 

“Where is Hook?” she attacks right away, dropping her bag on the floor. 

She inhales, lets the salt purify her whole being. 

Smee makes a face, visibly taken off guard and very embarrassed. 

This must be bad. 

“Smee?” she repeats. 

Her instincts are screaming, petrified, horrified by what they are discerning. 

The pirate lets go of a sigh, looks absolutely mortified. 

“The Captain is gone to kill the crocodile, milady.” 

The floor seems to disappear beneath her feet, and she needs to hold onto the wheel not to fall. Her heart sinks. 

She bites her lips, forces herself to think straight. “Smee, when did he go and where?” 

She gives him three seconds to answer but he doesn’t seem inclined to. Her blood is boiling. 

“Smee, answer me,” she hisses, and her voice is barely above a whisper. 

Yet, she sounds terrifying. 

He eyes behind her, uncomfortable and slowly bends his head towards her ear. 

“It was 6am,” a pause, anxiety strangling her, “ It’s a long ride, perhaps 10 hours if the weather is good, but that’s not humanly possible, so he’ll have to stop.” 

“The weather is fucking fantastic,” she snaps back, unable to control her old habits. 

With these last words, she picks up her bag and resumes leaving. 

“Milady, where are you going?” asks anxiously Smee’s voice. 

“To save his worthless ass,” she mumbles, and rolls her eyes gloriously. 

“Milady!! That’s exactly why he told me not to tell you!!”

“Too bad you can’t keep your mouth shut, am I right?” 

.

8h30. 

“Ahoy little lass, the sun is shining. So am I.” 

Rupert guides her to rent the “finest horse in all the realm” at a market near the docks; it’s full of colors and scent and fruits and vegetables and, now and then, magic creatures put on display, like those poor fairies in pots. 

“I’m pretty sure that’s illegal,” she mutters, thinking she’s recognizing Tinker Bell. 

“Illegal? Ya’re speaking to a pirate little lass,” remarks Rupert, and he makes her smile.

“Fair enough,” she mumbles, but her words are full of tenderness for the scruffy man. 

She hasn’t got much experience with horses, barely what she learned here on the job; which quite frankly can be summed up by Hook putting her ass on a horse and telling her to hold the reins. 

“Here, little lass,” exclaims Rupert, one hand on the collar of the animal, “ may I introduce ya to Charming.” 

The charger wears a pale brown fur, and his black eyes are full of softness as she caresses him. 

“Nice to meet you, Charming. Let’s go.” 

Her friend lifts her, two hands grabbing her foot as she steps over Charming. She quickly grabs the reins, conforted by the calmness of her horse. 

“Well,” she starts as she makes the animal turn towards Rupert, “it was lovely meeting you. Have a good life Rupert. You deserve it.” 

Funny how emotional she suddenly is, staring at the not so young man who gave her his friendship and loyalty in the blink of an eye, and soothed her with the warmth in his gaze. 

“Bah, I don’t want yar goodbye bullshit,” she hears him say, and she grins, not understanding, “I’m coming with ya.”


	8. Redamancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please make sure you have read the previous chapter <3

_“You can’t save people. You can only love them.”_ Anaïs Nin _._

 

July the 26th, 9am.

The road to the Castle is shared between an almost desertic area, a forest obviously, and volcanic rocks.

“Knowing him, Hook must have stopped at some tavern to sleep to have as much strength as possible for tomorrow’s final battle. Therefore, if we rush, we could arrive there at the same time.”

“That sounds like a crazy bet,” she retorts.

“Aye, little lass. But it’s our only hope.”

They manage to canter all morning, and her ass fucking hurts, until the horses are too tired and can barely trot. It’s frustrating.

She’s not sure whether she wants to save Hook’s life or kill him instead.

To make time pass, Rupert tells her more about him and his captain.

“I knew him at the navy, where I was a simple officer despite my advanced age. I’ve never really had any talent in life, not like ya.”

His remark, as they pass through a peaceful clearing, lifts her gaze in surprise. She has never told him about her passion.

There’s a knowing smile on his lips. “The lad told me.”

 _Oh_. A sweet heat releases itself in her chest, probably reaches her cheeks. “I don’t have talent, it’s just habit,” she quickly murmurs, head lowered.

There’s a chuckle at her side. “That’s not what he told me. He seemed bloody bewitched.”

She rolls her eyes, trying her best to hide the smile cracking her features.

“Hmm,” hums Rupert at his side, and it’s sounds fucking suspicious.

“What?” she snaps, her aggressivity giving it all away.

“Nothing, little lass. I was wondering what ya can find in such a useless arse as Hook.”

Her heart misses a bit as she chokes, side eyeing him uncomfortably. “I don’t find anything in Hook.”

_Other than his ass, that is._

“That’s what the lasses say!” and he begins an old lullaby .

She can’t even seem to mind, laughing gently as he serenades her, a wry smile on his thin lips.

He’s way too fucking endearing, this old Rupert. There’s this serenity in eyes, of someone who has lived by his own rules and believes he has done everything he could.

_Because in the end, little lass, what’s important is knowing ya managed to see the sun behind the clouds._

Somewhere in the fucking Enchanted Forest, they stop after six hours to feed the horses and lay down a bit on the side of the road, stretching their legs.

“Liam, Killian’s brother, was our Captain,” he recounts, one arm beneath his head, a piece of grass between his teeth.

She listens, back leaned against a tree, anxiety mistress of her mind despite the quietness of the environment, only troubled by some extremely colorful birds.

“A bloody self righteous bastard, but a good man. Killian admired him so much,” there’s a change in his voice, the tone getting more serious, and it tastes like broken promises and hopeless dreams, “He died during a mission in Neverland. That’s how Killian found out our King was a ruthless asshole and he decided to become a pirate.”

A pause, the tears she gathers in the warmth of his wrinkly eyes. “It’s hard, to live old, little lass. Ya get to see _everyone_ ,” his voice trembles, “everyone you love being submerged by sorrow. Turning into their worst selves.”

A pause.

“Which is why, I have made the promise to myself to shelter some light in my heart. To preserve it. To look at the sky and still be able to see beauty.”

Her throat tight. “To expect and see the best of people.”

Between anyone’s lips, it would have sounded hypocritical or superficial. Between his lips, everything seems to make sense, his welcoming behavior explained.

It’s probably what she admires most in him: he has seen the worst and best of humanity and has chosen to focus on the last part.

“Since Liam’s death, I’ve followed Killian through hell and back, and truth to be told, I’d do it again.”

A bird passing before her eyes, everything getting overwhelming, the silence, the sound of nature, the grass beneath her fingers and this void in her chest. It feels a lot like she’s compromising Hook’s intimacy, like she shouldn’t hear those words.

Yet, here she stands, waiting for more, cool wind in her hair.

“I’ve tried, little lass, I’ve really tried to keep him on the light side, to make him see that nothing was lost yet. But he lost Milah, and there was somehow no going back.”

The emotion is palpable in his voice, the guilt, failure, the “I should have tried harder”.

“You did your best, Rupert. And as much as you’d want it to, if he doesn’t want to be saved, then there’s no way to save him,” she states, and reaches for his calloused fingers.

There’s a smile on his weary face as he holds her hand tighter.

“Aye. And then, _then_ ya came along, ya dazzled us all and brought light back to this bloody ship.”

Her breath, stolen, as he dives his eyes into hers, seemingly sure of his words.

“Ya arrived and started putting holes in each of his convictions. That’s why he had to go now, while his mind can still think straight.”

Her gazing everywhere but on his face, lost, awfully breathtaken. “You can’t give someone something you don’t have, can you?” she asks him, voice shaking.

“Of course ya can. Look at you, little lass, so unable to love yourself and yet-”

“-we should go,” she cuts him, hastily standing up.

Her heart is beating way too fast for it to healthy.

.

Later that night, when she’s wrapped in a fluffy blanket and he’s laying on the parquet floor with just a pillow, there are some words.

“We will leave at 5am, when the sun begins its rising. I know the lad, he’ll wait for 6am to be sure of the weather. We can do this little lass.”

“How is he going to kill the Dark One?”

“The cave you visited. He found dreamshade. It’s a very powerful poison that links one’s life to Neverland. By logical reasoning, Rumpelstiltskin isn’t there and would die in the next few hours.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“Ahoy little lass, the sun is sleeping. So should I.”

.

July the 27th, 3pm.

“Holy freaking smoak above.”

“...Aye, not quite sure what ya mean, but I assume it’s yar reaction to the castle. Quite impressive, yeah?”  
On the outskirts of the forest, branches playing with her hair, Emma stares at the Dark One’s castle, one hand on the reins while the other forms a sunshade over her eyes. She’s not sure if it’s the exhaustion of those two days, or just the monstrosity of the building; either way, she’s completely taken off guard.

The blue of the sky, of the purest kind, contrasts achingly with the four dark towers reaching probably a hundreds of meters. The architecture reminds her of some gothic English cathedral.

_The Empire State Building seems fucking ridiculous next to it._

“Come, little lass. We’ve got a damsel in distress to rescue,” exclaims Rupert at her side.

Emma nods, still taken aback, exhaustion causing her movements to be slower. Swallowing down, she tries to ignore the voice in her head whispering frightening thoughts.

_This is going to end very badly, Emma. Run when you still can._

The path to the bridge is muddy, and strangely dry; their horses are careful with their step, smelling danger. Sulfur fills in their lungs and she’s soon coughing in the crook of her arm.

Why did she embark on such an adventure? Because she owes him?

_It’s his own fucking fault if he needs revenge, if he’s going to die for it, if he’s an idiot and a-_

A sigh.

“Don’t worry, little lass,” Rupert’s comforting words greet her ears as they approach the wire fence; the whole thing made of pics ready to stab you if you manage to get there, “I’ll protect you with my life, if it gets to that.”

_Which it will._

The smoke around them gets thicker, making it hard to breath, _go to hell Hook_ , and her leather pants are a sticky pressure around her legs. The domain spreads itself on multiple acres, but the soil doesn’t seem farmable. In fact, everything reeks of death.

“And what?” she inquires, eyeing rest of a corpse on the ground, “We just knock and go ‘hey, my friend who’s an idiot is probably in there trying to kill you, would you mind if we take him back and go home?’” she jeers, pearls of sweat hurtling down her temples.

Rupert doesn’t listen to her whining, but only looks at his surroundings with caution instead.

He frowns. “I’d bet ya he’s already there, but there’s no sign of him. This isn’t good.”

She swallows down, watches as he jumps off his horse and gazes wearily around him. Out of breath, she does the same, one hand around the collar of the animal.

The heat is getting unbearable, reducing their thoughts and bodies to scraps, while fear is slowly taking over her mind.

_Breathe Emma. It’s going to be alright. What could go wrong, anyway?_

“We’re going to pass by behind,” finally mutters Rupert, tying a knot of the reins of his horse on to the railings.

She follows his lead, hands trembling despite her best attempts at being calm. It’s far easy to be vulnerable with Rupert, she knows he’d never take advantage of her.

“Do you know this castle?” she asks, and she wishes her tone would have been firmer.

A nod as he takes her hand in his. “I’ve already been imprisoned here. The crew managed to get me back. I should remember the path.”

.

They hurtle down some sort garden, except there’s no plants, burned grass reigning. It cracks under their feet, and it sounds a lot like bones. She tries not to think too much about it, and runs faster instead, sulfur eating their lungs.

The sound of her heartbeat rings in her ears, it gives her a headache.

“Faster, little lass,” Rupert commands, and she’s so thankful he has come with her.

Going alone would have been a suicide, no matter how brave.

After a few meters, they arrive in front of a door carpeted by thorns. He’s quick despite his age, gets out a knife and dust them on the dead ground.

_The sound of her heartbeat rings in her ears, it gives her a headache._

Strikes of lightning behind her back, the thunder that follows.

“Fuck, I hate thunderstorms,” she whispers, and grabs Rupert’s shoulder for comfort, biting her lips.

_It was her first night in the street, cold and damp, when a frightening face appeared in the dim fog._

_“A little girl like yourself shouldn’t be here.”_

“Little lass, are you alright?” Rupert’s round face, and the warmth of his hand on her shirt.

She offers him a smile, heart at the very edges of her eyes. “I’m fine.”

He nods, considering her for a little just a fraction too long. The pirate then pulls out of his bag a piece of metal, curves it, and unlocks the door. Emma cannot help but catch a glimpse of her past with Neal.

It’s upsetting; how long lasting the memories are, how they strangle her softly, how bitter they taste on her tongue. She sees chocolate eyes and a dashing smile, and tousled brown hair, and hears his _voice_ , and she-

“Lass!” Realization hits her; Rupert is already inside, waiting for her.

_Fuck Emma, now is not the time to cry over almost and maybe._

“I’m coming!”she answers and inhales deeply.

_The sound of her heartbeats rings in her ears, it gives her a headache._

She closes her eyes, one second, considers the open door, the darkness of the corridor she must take.

It all unfolds beneath her eyelids. Flashes of beautiful features, a forget-me-not blue gaze, the touch of his skin against hers, the warmth of his breath in her neck, and his scent devouring her senses. She feels the slight jump of her heart when she catches his eyes on her, because of course he’s been staring.

A breath, just one, eyelids lifting, and she gets in, her legs heavy.

There’s a smile in the darkness greeting her, a knowing look praising her.

“Promise me ya’ll take care of him,” Rupert demands her, his sticky fingers grabbing hers.

She understand his silence. _Take care of him when I’m gone._

Her nod then, and she’s glad that it’s too dark for him to see how overwhelmed she is.

“Okay, little lass. Here’s the plan: ya run, as fast as ya can, and I’ll be behind ya the whole time.”

_The sound of her heartbeats rings in her ears, it gives her a headache._

 

He hears a giggle behind his back.

“My my, Captain. I’d lie and say it’s a pleasure to see you again, but I guess it’s always a good day to kill you.”

_His favorite color is red._

Hook sits on the central table, one as large as the oars on his ship, legs spread wide as he drinks his rum, in the main room of the Dark One’s demeure. The liquor traces the path to hell in his throat, wetting the corner of his mouth. With his sleeves, he wipes away the alcohol from his skin.

He flashes his most murderous grin.

“I have been waiting for this moment for hundreds of years,” he starts, hand closing into a fist, “to crush your heart into the wind and-”

The giggle behind him is the one bloody giggle which causes his whole body to ignites itself in a fiery rage.

_His favorite color is red._

_“_ See, dearie, I think we have more in common that you may think,” hums the Dark One, appearing in front of him on his throne, “because I assure you,” another giggle, his rippled  greenish lips split in an awful grimace, “I’ve been waiting for this moment for forever too.”

Killian clenches his teeth, the desire to break his jaw and removes the Dark One’s entrails with his bare hands, see the thick blood flow between his fingers was tangible in the aura around him. And then, he’d shoot that damn greenish golden head of his. He’d shoot until the Dark One’s eyes burst and his pupils fell at his feet. He aches to see the blood flee from this monstrosity of nature.

He knows he will avenge her, Milah, and the tender pugnacity of her eyes, Milah, and the softness of her dim hair, Milah, and the feel of her skin beneath his fingers, Milah, Milah, Milah.

_His favorite color’s red._

He stands up, his muscles tensed from his long journey; he imagines his own eyes as glazed, clouded by his bloodlust.

Another giggle.

“You really don’t know what’s coming do you?” giggles once again Rumplestiltskin, and he hates with a burning passion of he rolls his r, has nightmares of the sound of it.

Killian takes another step towards the Dark One, hardwood floor chanting beneath his feet, brow furrowed. He’s not moving. He’s not trying to escape him.

_He knows something he doesn’t._

And it only makes him more dreadful. He holds onto Milah’s face as the monster crushed her heart, hold onto her scream, her agony, her “I love you”, her scent not leaving his nose for two months, haunting his dreams, until it was nothing but-

Another giggle, his hand covered of warts coming to find his chin, as the crocodile smiles harder.

“You’re going to love this new twist!” he exclaims, and his light tone makes Hook quiver in rage.

_He’s trying to scare you. Do not back away now that you’re so close to reaching your goal._

His hold gets tighter on the blade in his hand, the blade he meticulously soaked with Dreamshade, fingers turning white.

Another giggle. 

“You’re coming here to avenge your lover’s death but you’re only going to lose more today. How poetic is that?”

Hook stops, barely any space separating them, throat tight.

“What do you mean, monster?” he mutters, and his voice only could stab a man.

The giggle, Rumpelstiltskin closing his eyes in delight.

“Monster? Me? Quite presumptuous to judge on that, pirate,” he hums, and this glimmer in his eyes.

Wrong. _Wrong._

_His favorite color’s red._

“Answer me!” An order, as he unsheathes his weapon and aims at his throat.

 _Another_ giggle.

“Why, the savior coming to rescue you of course! You’ll excuse me, I had to get rid of her. While she was giving you the doey eyes, it was quite hard for her to break a curse.”

He frowns, perturbed. “The savior? What savior?”  

A blasting noise behind them, him flinching and turning.

“Hook!”

Emma.

The green of her eyes as she stumbles into the room, Rupert behind her, the waves of relief washing over her face, and her smile, a sight to behold for sure, him unable to move.

The _giggle_.

“How romantic! The star crossed lover reunited for the last battle!”


	9. Weltschmerz

_“To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived - that is to have succeeded.”_ Ralph Waldo Emerson 

* * *

It all goes very quickly. Too quickly.

There’s a guillotine appearing in front of Emma, and the next second her neck is trapped in the engine.

_The green of her eyes drowns in tears._

Hook screams as he’s frozen in place, blade held high, useless, flashes of Milah’s heart dusting into the wind.

Rupert is trying to free her, using all of his strength, the little veins on his face popping. Rumplestiltskin throws him against the wall, as if he’s a rag doll and he falls on the ground in a muffled sound.

There are tears burning his eyes and the tightness of his throat, this feeling of being a little boy again.

And finally, Rumplestiltskin appearing next to him, holding the rope keeping her alive.

And the _giggle_.

“So, Captain. You have a choice to make. You can kill me, for sure, nobody can survive dreamshade. But, if I die-”

“The lack of pressure will cut Emma’s throat,” Hook finishes, low, distant.

It is impossible to dissimulate how his heart aches in his chest, how unbearable it is to watch her like this, to know this is all _his_ bloody fault, that there’s no going back.

Another giggle.

“Of course, you have no proof of my sincerity, but it’s all you have left,” the Dark One chuckles.

His chin trembles, rage clenching his jaw.

The green of her eyes drowns in tears.

Hundred of years of torment to be faced with such choices, hundred of years of torment to be able to reach for his Graal and not quite.

He takes a few steps towards his nemesis, scarce ones, painful ones; it seems like his legs are made of wood and he’s dragging them with all of his strength.

He discerns Milah’s smile as he gets closer, blade burning between his fingers, he sees her smile, can almost taste her lips. His whole body is shaking with rage, despair, humiliation, hatred.

His tongue runs over his chapped lips, and he can taste blood in his mouth as he bites his cheek, hard, _hard_ , until it hurts more there than the ache in his chest.

He speaks then, husky, throbbing.

“I have waited,” a pause as he can smell Rumplestiltskin, something astringent, filling his lungs and poisoning them in the same breath, “a hundred years to be able to kill you, and now-” he inhales, attempting at controlling the frissons of his hand, “now I can, and if you think anything’s going to stop me from this,” the clear astonishment in the monster’s eyes, “you’re wrong.”

And Killian avoids her sight at all cost, pretends she’s not here in the room, that he cannot catch among of all this darkness her scent; something pure, flowery when the sea air curls her hair, the honey perfume of her skin.

A nod.

*

The sensation of the wood against her neck is overwhelming, causes her to want to throw up and scream; but she stays silent, and watches as he makes his way towards his nemesis, bending forward, muscles aching.

She lets the tears hurtle down her cheeks.

Ah, _betrayal_ ; an old, familiar friend, a long lasting companion keeping her busy at night, invading her thoughts and everyday life.

You’d think she’d get used to it.

Instead, this emptiness throbs in her chest, devouring the frame of her heart, and abandoning there a lit candle. The ones he hates so much.

It’s no deliverance death; it’s a silent scream caught in the depth of her throat.

“Now I can, and if you think anything’s gonna stop me from this, you’re wrong.”

The words don’t quite reach her ears. They seem blocked out by the ringing of her own heart, something heady, intoxicating.

She doesn’t see Hell unfurls over them.

*

Rupert, of his first name Thomas, has had a beautiful and vibrant life, or so by his own criterias.

He has been kind and selfless, has been warm to kids and earned the respect of elders, has always lived by his own rules and a code of honor.

Rupert earnestly promised Liam Jones that he would protect his brother with his life.

And so, eventually, he does.

On the floor, pretending to be unconscious, he understands quickly his current Captain’s deception. He begins crawling, silently, passing by his little lass, tries to catch her eyes but they are unfocused - she is lost in her own hell - inhales some clouds of dust but survives, and _finally_ , slowly, stands up behind the Dark One.

It’s a funny sight, the Dark One.

From afar, a small reptile, from up close, a smaller reptile, awfully disgusting.

His lad nods, giving him the signal.

His hand closes itself on the Crocodile’s wrist.

“Ahoy mate.”

His Captain is quick, and throws his fist into the crumpled greenish face. Meanwhile his fingers hold the rope, and ties it into a knot in the mechanism, and lifts the two blades before they can release onto her throat.

“Ahoy little lass, the sun is shining. So are you.”

One last look at her, at the sun itself, at the infinity of her emerald eyes and the little freckles over her nose and the blond of her hair, shining, dazzling, and then death, silence, _nothing_.

*

“Rupert!” she screams, and it comes from deep inside, from the locked cave of her heart.

She falls down on her knees as his round face winces, the poisoned blade delivering a torrent of blood. All strength seems to have given up her body, sorrow falling on her shoulders with all of his weight.

She can not breathe. Think. Hear.

She doesn’t perceive Hook’s scream in communion with hers, but crawls instead towards the body of her friend.

“ _Rupert_ ,” she repeats again, and the words are gibberish, not making any sense.

She pulls back the hair falling in front of his eyes, hands trembling, pearls drawing his features as she stands before him.

Marred, hopeless, dead.

_“The sadness filling yar lungs because of an event is due to yar judgement about this event. Ya have all the cards in yar hands to be happy, little lass.”_

“Oh, Rupert,” a sob cuts through her, and it’s the desperate kind.

Another body falls next to her, the muffled sound lifting her eyes filled with tears.

“Killian.”

She leans on her hands, approaching him carefully, anxiety strangling her. “Don’t you dare die on me you son of a bitch.”

She shifts him on his back with the strength of despair, teeth clasped together, and relief washes over her when she sees him inhale sharply. Her palm finds his cheek, heart moaning, and something shatters in her when she feels the wetness of his skin. He’s crying.

“It’s gonna be alright,” she hears herself pledge, and she’s not sure who she’s trying to comfort. “Everything is gonna be alright,” and she cradles his cheeks, neck, hands desperate to sooth, to repair, to mend, to be mended.

There’s a sigh as he opens his blue eyes, his gaze falling on her, but the light is gone.

A giggle behind her. “Allow me, dearie,” starts the Dark One, and she slowly shifts towards him, murdering her through hers tears, “to doubt that.”

Another giggle, his hands joined together. “But, I’m not inhuman, and let me explain you why I had to sent you in this realm.”

“You,” a pause, hands gripping on Hook’s coat, “you are the one who sent me here.”

Her whole body is throbbing with rage, veins popping on her temples. Her hands tickle.

A giggle. “Yes! It’s exactly what I said just said. Why, you may ask.” A pause, his wicked grin relishing in the devastation on her face. “Because I needed you out of Storybrooke.”

Realization hits her. She knows this face.

“Mister Gold.”

_“Do not open it. This book hides wonders your narrow mind couldn’t understand.”_

A giggle. “Oh you’re a smart one dearie, aren’t you?!”

Hook’s hand finds her, lace their fingers together, to calm her down perhaps.

“But, this doesn’t make any sense,” she spits, distraught, “you were _there_.”

He giggles, the Dark One taking a little spin. “Yes! In fact, I _am_ there.”

She frowns, watches as he dances around the table, so fucking proud of himself she wants to stab him. Confusion is driving her mad.

“What you’re seeing, dearie, is merely a hologram, as we would say in your world. Sure, a much more clever version, since you can see me, hear me, touch me, and smell my scent, without being able to reach me at all.”

No.

_No._

Pieces fall just in place, the puzzle whole again.

“This is why nobody came to stop us from entering here,” she begins, and anger causes her voice to be shaking, “this is why you let Hook get near you, this is why you gave him this choice.” He giggles again, making her heart sinking, “there was _no_ choice.”  

Manipulation. Tears burn her eyes, her throat stuck in an iron fist.

Rupert died for nothing.

“Indeed, dearie! My other self is currently in another world, which allows me to appear to you without getting in the way of the future.” A giggle. “But, although I can’t be killed here, the blade in my hand is quite real.”

It’s all a matter of seconds as she sees him appear next to Hook’s body, and her grip gets firmer over his body, the tickling redoubling of intensity.  

All this, and then a flash of light.

*

Distraught, her eyes stay squeezed closed, the only evidence being the leather beneath her fingers.

She’s not ready for whatever she has to face.

She just wants a break, a moment to breathe, where the world is peaceful and she can ignore this weight on her chest.

A moment where her body is light, and her mind clear, and no tears are burning her eyes.

And so she takes.

Stays still until her body ache, until her knuckles are white.

She thinks of the docks on her first day here, the peacefulness among the disaster, she thinks of the way the ocean cradles the Jolly Roger, how some more playful waves wet her hair and curl them, of the salty taste over her lips when she eats next to Rupert, oh _Rupert_.

Warm fingers find her cheek, and she lifts her eyelids, staring at the man next to her, a lump in her throat.

“Look love,” he calls her, voice weak and hoarse, “you brought us home.”

A look at the room, his quarters, and back to his features crisped in a smile.

She doesn’t know who reaches out first, barely makes out the strength of his arm around her waist and his scent in the crook of his neck, and how _whole_ she feels in that instant despite everything.


	10. Agape

I think we deserve

a soft epilogue, my love.

We are good people

and we’ve suffered enough.

— **_S_ e** ** _venty Years of Sleep_ **

 

“I chose you,” murmurs his eyes at 10am. The sun is high in the sky and her hands are sure on the ship’s wheel, and he stands lower on the desk, a smile on his lips.

“I chose you,” his eyes remind her at 2pm, when she avoids him and shuts herself in her room.

“I chose you,” scream his eyes at 1am, when they are filled with blood and she hasn’t said a word to him.

“I chose you,” she snaps back, when despite this fear shaking her whole being, she _stays_.

But it’s not enough for him, she can tell. Her silence, her fleeing, it’s void and hollow.

.

August 1st, 12am.

When they bury in the sea an empty bag, he stands quietly next to her. The sun is blinding, they screw their eyes shut, and the heat overwhelming.

He doesn’t reach for her. It _kills_ her.

Not that she needs comfort. She has already shed all of the tears imaginable, but she needs _him._

Therefore, as he stands, head held high, her fingers are timid over his fisted palm. She unties carefully each finger until he sighs and tangles their hands together.

A weight is lifted off her shoulders.

When all of the crew has a world for their loss, she discovers hidden resources of tears in the human body, and presses her forehead to his leathered shoulder.

When it’s her time to speak, she simply shakes her head in “no”.

_No I can’t do that, Rupert would understand. You understand, Rupert. You understand how much I loved you._

The breeze murmurs _yes_ in her ears.

When it’s his turn, he lets go of her hand to talk, standing next to the planch, his whole crew silent.

“Ahoy, Rupert. The sun is shining. So are you.”

 _Ahoy Rupert. The sun is shining. So are you,_ she mimes on her lips, tears shaking her body.

 _Un soleil se lève, un soleil se couche_ , he would have murmured, for he always saw the best of existence. _One sun rises, one sun sets._

What an admirable quest.

She decides to make it her own: to see and expect the best of people.

.

Another week passes. They grieve.

It’s funny how silent the crew is, no more grass laughter at 2am and battles on desk. Even the ocean is calm, doesn’t dare to trouble their homage.

The sky wears a pale grey dress for the event. A grieving sky in the summer.

Emma tries to reach out for Killian, offers him a smile as they sit silently next to each other at dinner. She has taken Rupert’s place next to the Captain.

Their fingers brush, but his eyes won’t find hers.

It hurts. Steals away her breath and her bearings. It’s during those moments where she misses Rupert the most; he would have been there to hold her open hand, to cradle her head and tell how much of an idiot the Captain is.

Instead, silence, the impassable boundary between her and Hook.

.

She misses Rupert at 2am when she’s sitting cross legged on the kitchen’s counter, and she watches the tenderness of the waves against the Jolly Roger, and nobody is there to tell her a tale.

She misses Rupert when she tries to draw his round face but her memories are blurry, she can’t remember if his mole was on his left or right cheek, and no one is there to hold her as tears swallow her alive.

She misses Rupert when she figures out _forever_ , and how long it can last when your heart yearns for someone who’s gone.

.

August 6th, 3am.

 

“Emma,” his gentle whisper as she stumbles into him during a sleepless night, the muffled sound of her door closing behind him.  

His features, the darkness under his eyes, and the sorrow in the soft blue of his eyes, and how much she wants to press her mouth against his pink lips and kiss his melancholy away.  

And she realizes it’s possible to live with someone and still miss them.

Despite everything, though, she breathes again as she feels his hand against her lower back, a familiar touch in the haze of the night.  

The picturesque scene of it all is striking. In this dark corridor, not a ray of light cascades over them. Emma’s bare feet shift weight on the irregular wood, this very same wood harmonizing a sad melody with the sea.

She licks her lips. “Killian, I-”

He cuts her, one finger against her lips as his thumbs brushes her cheek, his touch both soothing and painful, and she stands still, electricity rushing through her blood.

“Not a word, Swan,” he finally murmurs. His hand leaves her mouth, trailing down her shoulder, her arm, settles for the warmth of her hand.

The softness of his smile like a firefly caught between a child’s chubby hands, as he drags her along with him. “Come,” a single word, and she follows.

His steps are sure as he guides her to the desk, and his thumbs trace patterns over her wrist. Her heart is at the very edges of her mouth.

Everything is so overwhelming when she’s with him, his scent, the touch of his skin, her heartbeats, the waves crashing lovingly against the Jolly. Dizzy, she admires the night sky inhabited by constellations, how the sea reflect their shine as a passionate tribute.

The night is incredibly tender, no cold wind, barely a fresh breeze against her bare neck and arms. Out of time.

Hook lets go her hand to face her, and the intensity of his gaze causes her to hold her breath.

“I’m bloody mad at you, Emma,” he eventually states, his sentence a grain of salt in this immensity.

She watches the turmoil in his eyes. Her own heart sinks. She nods. “I know.”

It’s awful, to see him in such torment and to be reason of it.

There’s a sigh in the beauty of his face, his hand pressed against the wrinkles of his forehead.

“I knew it wouldn’t be easy, nothing is with you.” She smiles, because of the tenderness in his voice, the devotion, how he means it harsh but can hardly be any less gentle “but, _Emma_ ,” a plea, a knife into her heart, “I never expected you to ignore me for the rest of my life either.”

His dramatization makes her chuckle because she wants to cry.

“That sounds like a lot of time,” she admits, and she’s glad he smiles back.

It’s a brief flicker of light amidst the dimness.

Her heart is shattering, the fragments crushing into his eyes.

“I just-, I want you to know that, that day, at the Dark One’s castle,” she’s holding her breath, fighting against all of her inner instincts begging her to run, buries her feet instead in the wood, “I chose _you_.”

It’s a miracle, those free words, of those she thought she’d never hear of her lifetime. Those three words, they give meaning to sleepless nights in the coldness of the street, to the despair, to the loneliness.

They completely destroy her. Take her off guard, attack behind her back, stab her right in the heart.

She huffs out a little scoff, the vague movement of her shrugging her shoulders, _my poor girl_. She raises her chin, to blink back the tears in her eyes. “I know, Killian.”

Of fucking course she knows.

It has been haunting her since they got back to the ship, it’s in each of his glances and her nightmares.

She has no idea how to deal with it. She’s used to betrayal, abandonment, not to people grabbing her hand and never letting go.

He nods. “Good,” she doesn’t miss how his voice trembles, “because I don’t intend on letting you down.”

She chuffs as he takes her hand in his, brings his lips to her knuckles, ghosts there a burn, and she selfishly hopes he doesn’t perceive how much she’s shaking.

_I chose you too._

Overwhelmed, she reaches for his neck, his jawline, his cheeks, and it’s this that destroys the barrier between them. She leans against him, presses her forehead against his. Breathes him in.

It’s messy. It’s his hand gripping a little bit too ardently her hip and her fingers tangled with his hair, her breath against his face and his own dancing over her lips, their eyes closed almost angrily.

_I chose you too._

“But,” one word. It brutally cuts the air, forces her to back away to distinguish the glimmer in his eyes, “I _need_ you to chose me too.”

A pause. She breathes heavily. Her fingers brush over his lips as she bites her own.

“Let’s go back to the cave, then,” she proposes, and her doubts are drowned in the beauty of his smile.

He deserves to know. _She_ deserves to know.

“Aye,” and his lips find hers as if he had been holding back since the beginning.

It’s not gentle. It’s teeth and tongue fighting, it’s her arms circling his neck and him lifting her in his arms so that she’s able to wrap her legs around him, it’s his hands pulling up her nightgown and her fingers hastily opening his trousers.

It’s her scream as he penetrates her without any preparation, and the bite she leaves on the skin of his neck.

It’s the coldness of the wheel beneath her arse as he rides her hungrily, and her loud moans against his shoulder.

It’s the way he tosses her dress on the floor and keeps his own clothes on, the moon dressing her of white and stars reflecting on her skin.

It’s the “I love you” she’s not sure of hearing, the words stumbling, lost, agar, unaware of their surroundings.

.

4am.

 

They do not sleep that night. He helps her pack instead.

It’s thrilling to be the only two awake souls on board. They savour every second of it, act like teenagers in love in the quietness of the early morning, when the moon is the only one offended by their mutual adoration.

It’s thrilling because it’s goodbye.

Because they know they can act carelessly without feeling any remorse afterwards.

He takes her on the Captain’s table, her chuckles as he struggles with his pants and finally gives them up on some loose bunk.

_“Somebody’s going to be feeling quite attacked tomorrow when he sees black leathered pants on his place.”_

And so they pack. In all their glorious nakedness, not giving a fuck for the matter.

He’s on his knees as she places a few clothes on her bed, tongue dancing over her clit while she works. Until she sighs and lets him take her there too.

“You realize,” she moans in his mouth, “that you’re ruining any chances for some other man to compete.”

His laughter is carefree, infuriatingly adorable. “That’s the goal, Swan.”

Around 6am, everything is ready, “just in time to watch the sunrise,” and she can’t believe she’s letting Captain fucking Hook serenade her on the desk of his ship.

As they put on some clothes and she sits between his legs, his arms surrounding her safely, she focuses.

Tries to make as much memories as she can.

She paints in her mind how his breath tickles her neck, and the firmness of his hold on her, and his scent filling her lungs, and how peaceful the rhythm of her heartbeats are.

As the sky dons pastel feathers, from the most timid yellow to the warmest magenta, she smiles.

She thinks of the flowers surrounding here in the meadow when she got here, how everything stays the same and she’s the one who’s changed.  

.

9am.

 

“You ready, Swan?”

He’s already on his horse; the sun taints his hair with auburn and his eyes scintillate. He hands her his palm. Her gaze, however, is stuck on the frame of the Jolly Roger.

It’s a sight she’ll never get used to, the majesty of the ship, the purity of her sails, the noble wood.

_“I stole her from the Navy,” he whispers in the crook of her neck as she rides him on the desk of their vessel._

Her heart aches, “Yeah,” and she climbs at her turn.

She’s relieved to find the warmth of his embrace.

“Let’s go, Swan.”

She’d imagined it easier, leaving, the weight of nostalgia against her chest less heavy.

_You’re the one choosing, Emma. If you want to say, the choice is up to you._

For some reason, she knows it’s not true.

.

12am.

 

The sun has no sympathy for human pain. It taunts them, with vibrant sunshine, the warmth it exhales as their heart are frozen.

Emma’s throat is tight while they discern the cave, the sparkling roches calling to them, Charming attached to a tree behind them, in the Enchanted Forest’s fringe.

She has a bad feeling about this.

“The plan is quite simple, Swan: you poof us there, you take the book, and poof us back,” he says simply.

She shrugs. “You say it like I control it.”

She watches as he leans against the entrance, his hand at his belt, all swagger out, and she rolls her eyes. He’s ridiculous. She wants him dead again.

“Perhaps if Maleficent has one of her claws around my neck, you’d be more motivated.”

Oh, the stare she offers him. _Say that again and I end you._

It only makes him smile harder.

“Come here,” she orders, and outstretches her hand, “hold on and don’t let go.”

She closes her eyes, focuses herself on her emotions, attempts at living again those few moments where she has used her magic.

The fear is blocking her throat, panic at the edges of her mouth, her lo-...

“Bloody hell, you are amazing,” mutters Hook, and she opens her eyes.

To face the cave. Empty of any dragon.

She could not be more _proud_ of herself. Another unknown feeling.

“It can’t be far away,” he starts, but her eyes, as magnets, have already found the damn book.

“It’s here.” As she points to the cover on one of the highest rock, she’s outstanded to see the book fly to her. “What the fuck,” she mumbles as it falls delicately between her hands, and she catches the astonishment in Killian’s eyes.

He grins then, but it doesn’t reach the eyes, leave there a shadow instead.

“Seems like your world is missing you, Swan,” and there’s this bitterness in his voice.

“Yeah,” a pause, her is gaze fixed on the golden letters, looking up, looking back. She murmurs sure words “but _I_ don’t miss it.”

One second, for him to comprehend.

“Well, Captain; what do you say?”

Her attempt at sounding indifferent is a beautiful failure.

And then, the gasp he can’t hold back; the symphony of feelings offered to her eyes. The surprise first, the clear amazement. Eventually, the happiness unfolding over him.

She smiles, too. She thinks she’s happy, right there, right now, that this it, the great and terrible happiness she heard about her whole life without feeling like she deserved it.

He’s fast to resume the distance between them, his good hand grabbing her neck while his lips crash against hers, and she laughs into his kiss. It’s incredibly soft, tender, full of that other word she can’t stomach. He deepens their embrace, bringing her closer to him, until her breath is his own, tongues meeting in a fiery dance.

She adores the way he presses his nose on her cheeks and sucks at her lower lips, all the sweet kisses he trails along her jaw and neck, and the laughter he steals her.

Still, in the back of her mind, there’s bitterness, a feeling she can’t shake, that something terrible is going to ruin everything.

This kiss, despite its tenderness, is tasting awfully like a farewell.

Farewell comes way more softer than she had imagined it. It’s a voice, farewell.  

“Emma Swan?” inquires someone close.

Killian groans before unclasping his hand on her body, and she notices the swolleness of his lips and the sweet hue of pink over his cheeks. Without any haste, she shifts towards the interruption.

In front of them, a tiny woman glimmers in a blue sparkly dress. A fairy, Emma gathers.

The smile on her face gives it all away; she’s sorry.

“That would be me, yes,” Emma articulates, and her weariness palpable.

Killian must feel it too, because his arms wrap themselves around her chest, like he wants to hold her back, keep her safe.

“I’m sorry to ruin such a lovely moment,” _We won’t forgive you_ , “but I need to talk to you about something, Emma.”

She frowns. An iron fist is amorously strangling her. “I’m listening.”

The woman in front of her seems moved; it only makes her mad. Hook’s grip on her gets tighter, as if he can sense that she’s slipping through his fingers. It’s desperate, raw.

“My name is Blue, Emma. And I can see the future.”

She swallows down, waits for her sentence. “In that future,” the fairy continues, “you must arrive to Storybrooke on the date of your birthday.”

“My birthday? My birthday is in October and I’m already-”

“I know, Emma,” cuts her Blue, and she hates how familiar she acts with her, “you were supposed to break a curse there, the Evil Queen’s curse.” A pause, the words sinking in, her fingers wrapped around Killian’s lapels. “But she found a way to get rid of you by sending you here.”

A moment. “Surely you must remember Granny? An experimentation.”

The fairy flies around, arms spread. “This,” and she points to her and Killian, “this wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to stay in Boston and to be found by-...that’s unimportant. You will break this curse.” A pause. “If you come back.”

_This isn’t making any sense. A fucking curse now?_

“What aren’t you telling me?” Emma snaps.

Killian’s breath gets thicker next to her, emotion taking over.

“Emma, you remember Rumpelstiltskin's words. He called you the savior.”

A nods, fears creeping in, devastating everything.

“If Rumpelstiltskin is really in another world trying to find a way to find his son, the person you were facing was-”

“Regina.” She looks up, Killian has spoken, is rather angry it seems.

_Regina, the Queen who wanted me dead?_

A knot in her stomach, blood boiling. “I don’t understand, I-”

“Emma, you have to decide quickly. I can not tell you more. But, before you make your choice, you must know one thing.”

Blue licks her lips, and they are both hanging at her words. “You two,” she takes a breath, her slim fingers pointing delicately to them, “will have to forget each other.”

It’s strange. How life suddenly stops. A little bit to give you a moment to process, a little bit to stab you deeper.

She feels like a bubble is surrounding them, only her and Killian, as she gazes at him and discovers the same astonishment.

It burns her eyes.

She swallows down. Barely hears Blue’s word.

“But, Emma, you must know: if what you two share is true love, you will find each other again.”

True love?

She hasn’t even said the words. Feels no strength to. What’s the purpose of trying if everything is going to hell in the end?

Killian’s grip on her hand, shaking her, “Swan, we will meet again,” and his certainty causes her heart to bleed.

She feels a lot like she has just died, like her body has abandoned her.

“How can we trust her?” she asks him, and she wishes her voice had been firmer. “How can we know for sure that what she’s telling us isn’t bullshit?”

A smile splits his handsome face open, his fingers brush her cheek. “Even if it’s not true, you must go home, Emma. In a world where you are safe. I can’t offer you this life, not yet.”

Nothing makes sense, she relies on the only feeling she knows well: anger.

“So you’re going to leave me because a blue witch told you to?”

It’s unfair obviously.

Because she can see it in his eyes, the ache, harsh, bitter, she can feel it in the despair of his touch, in every fiber of her being.

“I’m _not_ leaving you, Emma,” he’s practically begging her, “It’s not farewell, it’s _until we meet again_.”  

She shakes her head. Her heart is breaking in a disgusting shattering sound.

“I don’t want any of this.” A pause, the tears she’s not aware of hurtling down her cheeks as she cups his face, “I only want you.”

His chuckle as he kisses her, hard, to make her forget his own sorrow. “Told you Swan: I’m irresistible.”

She doesn’t want to laugh, can’t hold it back either, because _what a fucking idiot_ , “I hate you so much,” and her lips are over his again.

She longs to mend, repair, fix, to be fixed, soothed, in the warmth of his embrace.

As he lets go of her, knuckles white, she’s not sure why she’s trusting this blue fairy. But for some unknown reason, Emma is utterly convinced she has to, despite everything.

They do not say _it_ , they save it for later, they save it for their next “hello”. Yet, it’s all his eyes scream as she picks up the book, place it over a larger rock, while he stands back. They create as much distance as he can between them.

It’s all hers. She lifts the front cover and it shoots open with a howl. Her gaze stays locked to his.

Blue’s hand hovers over their heads, “It’s been lovely being a part of your world, Captain.”

A smile.

“To our new beginning, love.”

 


	11. Epilogue

It’s a funny thing about coming home. Looks the same, smells the same, feels the same. You’ll realize what’s changed is you.  
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” 

 

August the 7th, 2011. 12am. 

Her headache is the first thing she notices in the blurriness of her mind. Frowning, she brings her hand to her forehead, eyelids still shut. 

What the fuck did I drink last night?

“Miss Swan,” calls her a voice, and it seems awfully far away. “Miss Swan,” repeats the voice, “come back to us.” 

This weight on her chest, this iron fist strangling her…

Hastily, she opens her eyes and swallows down with difficulty. Her throat is awfully dry. 

“Where am I?” Her voice is hoarse, rasp. 

She doesn’t understand this desire comin from within, from her depths, this desire to stop a foreign pain. 

“You’re at the hospital, ma’am,” informs a nurse, the voice from before, “A bad fall.” Emma hesitates, and finally the nurse releases unvarnished words, “You’ve been unconscious for a whole month, ma’am.” 

And it strangles, and it burns, and she’s urged by the need to cry and she has no fucking idea why. 

“Okay,” a breath, agony. 

“But you have no after-effects, Miss Swan.” A warm palm rests on her arm, and a month ago she would have pushed the nurse away, but she leans into the support. She doesn’t know why. “You’re going to be alright, I promise.” 

.

As it turns out, she recovers. 

As she packs to get the hell out of here, she hears the doctors. 

“She’s been babbling in her sleep about pirates and magic this whole month, and we think it’s healthy to let her go now?” 

Knuckles white, she clenches her jaw “this is nonsense”, mostly to shake this infuriating feeling that she’s missing something. 

. 

Back in her flat in Boston, she finds a drawing in her red leather jacket’s left pocket. She has no memory of it. 

Still, on the crumpled paper a beautiful sunrise is drawn in her familiar style.

“Since when are you romantic?” 

She examines the picture closer to see a woman, herself she gathers by the likeness, in a floral dress, with a man sitting beside her, her back against his abdomen. He is holding her oh so tightly. She has represented herself drawing, knees up, the paper pressed uncomfortably against them. 

Her head is lowered towards the drawing, blonde ponytail tangled in front of her eyes, the man’s chin is held high. They share a tender gaze, very blue, putting to shame the soft waves surrounding them. An enchanting, luminous smile graces his features. Dark tousled hair frames a sinful hallow around his face. 

She gathers she took the longest time on the man’s features; if her body is barely doodles, his is clear. Vibrant. Prominent. From the muscles of his arm, to the length of his eyelashes, it must have taken her forever. 

Worse, she seems to have drawn herself fading out. Her hands on the piece of paper are traced with a black pencil, the rest of her body is outlined by a soft grey. 

Emma swallows a lump in her throat, as she puts the drawing away. 

Something shatters within her. 

From afar, her figure is invisible. 

She doesn’t understand then, the pain that swallows her alive, the tears birthing at the edges of her very eyes, the frustration devouring her. 

Eventually, her irritation heightens to a climax.

“This is fucking bullshit.”

She throws it away in the first bin she finds. 

.

The next months are incredibly cold and lonely. She’s not quite sure why. She’s used to being alone. 

Yet, her body seems to yearn for the unreachable. 

.

2012\. 

It’s something she notices aboard the Jolly Roger, when her only concern is finding Henry: how familiar the ship is. 

It’s a bizarre feeling, hidden behind her heart, buried in the sea it seems. 

As they eat in the common room, rows of tables and chairs, she can almost grasp the crass laughter of a long forgotten crew. 

A look at Hook as they pass before the Captain’s table, the intensity of his gaze, and her cheeks burning for a foreign reason, toes curling in her boots. 

It’s even more irritating when during a sleepless night, she stumbles on him in the corridor and this feeling of déjà vu strangles her softly. 

It’s also in the room he gives her, in front of his quarters, and how she complains about the horrible wall paper before seeing it in front of her bewitched parents. 

She has bigger concerns, she pushes her feeling very deep in her mind, in a secret place where all of her secrets lie, so that they can not trouble her anymore. 

.

When they get back to the ship and Henry is safe, she hasn’t got enough time to herself to sit down and think. 

She’s far too relieved to wonder why she wakes up with a phrase stuck in her mind. 

“Ahoy, little lass. The sun is shining, so am I.” 

.

It’s a warm evening of July. The sun is delicately making its way down in the sky, leaving behind him clouds of mauve, burgundy, warm orange and pale yellow. 

She’s wearing a short cotton azure dress, high heels and her heart on her sleeves as she admires the spectacle. There’s this familiar warmth building in her chest; yet, it’s her first date on the Jolly Roger with him. 

“Killian?” she calls him, hands resting against the wheel ship. 

“Aye, love?”

His voice comes from far away, the kitchen - he has insisted on cleaning the dishes by himself. 

“Come here,” she asks him, and she almost instantly hears the cessation of the flow of water. 

Smiling, she shifts, hearing his footsteps on the old wood, and he makes his way towards her, a towel in hand. 

“What’s bothering you, love?” 

He’s so charming; she wants to die. 

The timid blue of his eyes as he approaches her is highlighted by the very same azure of his t-shirt that she bought for him on Christmas. His concern rings in his words. It makes her heart ache in the most pleasing way. 

“Don’t you think that this whole thing,” and she points largely at them and the ship, “is so familiar?” 

He frowns, and she bites her lower lips; perhaps she should have kept her doubts quiet. 

“Familiar?” he repeats, abandons the towel on the floor, and resumes his way towards her. 

She’s breathtaken by the beauty of his features, the waves of his eyes sparkling under the last rays of sunshine. 

“I’m not sure I understand, Swan,” he states as his steps lead him to her, barely a few millimeters separating them. 

His perfume fills her lungs, intoxicates her entire being, and she hates how the sun’s death abandons hue of red on the tip of his hair. 

His nose brushes with hers, sweet menace over her, and her ribcage is about to burst out. 

“What’s familiar?” he echoes again, his hand finding her tight and slightly pulling her dress to reveal more skin. “The sunset, as we finish dining?” Her eyes are fixed to his movements, mouth barely open, “Or perhaps the touch of my fingers over your open legs.” She gasps as he climbs back, caresses her hip. 

He bites his lower lips, and she barely distinguishes it through the dimness swallowing his features. 

“Is this familiar?” he whispers along her collarbone, fingers sliding beneath her panties. 

She must hold on to his shoulders, panting, and can’t hold back a gasp of surprise when he uses his other arm to lift her and drop her off on the ship’s wheel. 

“I assure you,” she breathes in the crook of his neck after tossing his shirt on the floor and unclasping his belt. “This is far too,” she can’t exhale, idle thumbs brushing over her clit, slow circles, slower ones, until her sweet agony is painted all over her face, “fa-miliar.” 

He chuckles in the dark of the night. And with an abrupt movement of his hand, Killian is removing her undergarments with haste. 

The suspended moment, as his good hand trace the frame of her mouth and she stares at him, awfully enamored. 

She gasps as he thrusts deeply into her, her back arching on the cold surface, memories of once upon another time, where she wasn’t her yet and he wasn’t him completely. 

“Perhaps,” he breathes a wet cloud against her mouth, “you dreamed of it.” 

Her giggle against his throat as he dives deeper, faster, hungrier. 

“It was more than a dream.” 

.

June the 27th, 2013, 12am. 

“Faster, faster, faster!” 

Her hands are clasped on the reins of her horse, tensed body leaning towards the front of the animal, to ride quicker, always more rapidly, until she must hold her breath to go on. 

She fucking knew it was a bad idea, she had told everyone. Nobody had been willing to listen to her. 

“Don’t worry, Emma. Your honeymoon in the Enchanted Forest will go just fine!” 

Even Killian had approved the idea, and she had been mad at him for a whole afternoon before crashing in his lap and watching some dumb romcom with him on their couch.

“I still think this is the worst idea we’ve ever had. I’m just cold.” 

“Right, love. You’re so cold.” 

One, one single fucking day without him, to visit Aurora in her kingdom, and in the middle of some reception far too eminent for her, a little blue bird landing on her lace shoulder. 

Between his tiny legs, a message. On it, her father’s panicked handwriting. 

“I’ll explain everything later, but Killian has fallen under a sleeping curse. You have to go back now.” 

She screamed in frustration in the middle of the room, the royal family staring at her with wide eyes, one word to her mother: “Gotta save my stupid ass husband, I’ll be back.” With that, she disappeared in a cloud of white smoke. 

It’s not that she’s not used to it, hell, they had even defied death together, but for fuck’s sake, less often if you please? 

She had appeared in the middle of a beautiful meadow, a feeling of déjà vu strangling her again, but hadn’t put much thought into it. Instead, she had cast a spell upon Liam’s ring, she kept it hanging around her neck, and had made appear in front of her a horse. 

Charming. 

Then again, she hadn’t stopped to collect her thoughts and had jumped instead on the animal, strangely familiar. 

There she is now, riding to the end of the forest, towards Killian, guided by the brilliance of Liam’s ring. In front of her, the trees are getting more scarce, and she gathers she’s reaching the edge of the forest. 

“You have put me through everything, Killian fucking Jones.” 

There’s a mutter, and finally, the brightness becoming blinding, her eyes squish, and the frame of a cave appears before her. 

She knows this place. 

A few meters, and she abandons her horse, feet eager to touch the sandy floor again. She rushes towards the entrance, heartbeats erratic.

“Fucking hell,” she breathes, eyes open wide as she discovers the interior. 

The cave is everything a fairytale cave would be in your mind: awfully large, rocks framing walls and the ground. However, not simple rocks; they are fluorescent and twinkle, hundreds of hues of sparkles. The lowest ones are tinted blue and purple, and as you lift your head, the colors get warmer; timid yellow metamorphosing into a bright orange. The top ones obviously are hot red, seem to deliver a sweet heat over their heads, fallen stars. 

“Emma!” cuts her a voice in her thoughts, and she flinches to see her father. 

He’s standing next to a makeshift shelter, in the back of the cave. Beneath him, Killian’s lifeless body. 

It makes it all so real. 

“Killian,” her cry as she runs towards him. 

It has been so easy all day, to whine about him getting in danger at every occasion, but now that she’s here, the emotions are overwhelming. 

Throat tight, her fingers find his cheek, trace there the small scar. “Oh Killian, what did you get yourself into again.” 

She means it a reproach, it echoes like words a love instead. 

The beauty of his features, long eyelashes giving up a tender shadow beneath his eyes, the pink of his lips, and she knows them soft and loving. 

A pressure on her shoulder. She looks up to see her father offering her a small smile. 

“You can do this, Emma.” 

It was easier, the whole tested by the Gods thing. Far easier to jump through the flames to protect him, because her body was magnetized to his. 

Now, as her hands caress his face, she’s awfully alone. 

She licks her lips, close her eyes, breathes in deeply, and delicately places her lips just grazing his. 

She feels it immediately; the pulse of light magic, radiating from them. What she doesn’t expect however, as she pulls back to discover the tender blue of his eyes, is the memories wrecking them. 

**“Thus, gentlemen, you are telling me that this poppy right here is the most powerful witch in all Arendelle ?”**

**“So, Swan, I have a deal to offer you.”**

**“Ahoy little lass, the sun is shining. So am I.”**

**“In fact, stop me if I’m wrong, but what I believe is that you’re out of your world.”**

**“I think,” a pause “I think I want you to be a part of my world.”**

**“Which is why, I have made the promise to myself to shelter some light in my heart. To preserve it. To look at the sky and still be able to see beauty.”**

**“You brought us home.”**

**“I need you to chose me too.”**

**“It’s been lovely being a part of your world, Captain.”**

**A smile.**

**“To our new beginning, love.”**

It’s weird, what happens next. 

How present Emma and Killian seem to fade away to let their past self express themselves, to let Captain Hook and the outlander meet again. 

“Killian,” her broken whisper, years of yearning, of wanting.

“Emma,” his whisper echoing hers, as his hand finds her cheek and cradles her gently. 

The smile splitting her face open while her ribcage explodes. 

“I missed you.” 

It’s the most indecent kiss afterwards, body crashing together in a wild embrace, tongues and teeth fighting. 

And her father huffs out a little awkward scoff next to them. “Come on guys, it’s not been 24 hours yet.” 

They don’t tell him it’s been three centuries and three years on that day. 

. 

“In conclusion, I was right about everything. As usual.” 

Her chuckle as he rests his head on her stomach, naked bodies tangled together in their royal room. 

“Aye, believe me it kills to admit it, but you were right, Swan.” 

She gently plays with his tousled hair, and grins. He speaks then, his breath against her skin. 

“It’s strange to think a part of ourselves were still waiting to meet again.” 

She inhales, to chase the weight on her chest since they got their memories back. 

“Yeah. I just,...” a pause, him raising his chin to see her gaze, “I’d really want to tell our past selves that everything is going to be alright.” Her slim fingers find his hand formerly caressing her stomach, tangle their palms together. “That in the end, we’re married and happy together.” 

“Aye,” a kiss over her belly button, “but perhaps the most important lesson we can gain from this, is that no matter what time, or place, we will always find each other.” 

She giggles as he shifts the sheet, revealing more skin. 

“You’re starting to sound a lot like my parents, old man.”

They pause, him leaving a trail of kisses along her chest, until he lifts himself to catch her eyes. In the evening light, he’s still mesmerizing. 

She expects him to kiss her but he simply buries his face in the pillow next to her, whole body laid on hers. Lovingly, she skims his back with her thumbs. 

“Once upon another time,” he begins singing in her ear, voice low, “before I knew which life was mine, before I left the child behind me. I saw myself in summer nights and stars lit up like candle light. I make my wish but mostly I believed…” 

In yellow lines and tire marks  
Sun-kissed skin and handle bars  
And where I stood was where I was to be

Once upon another time  
Decided nothing good in dying  
So I would just keep on driving  
Because I was free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it, the end. I truly hope you guys will find this ending fulfilling and thank you for reading this through.  
> As you may know, english isn't my first language so it has been a bit of a challenge. Tbh, I have loved every second of it. I'll probably post some bonus with you know "between the scenes". 
> 
> A big thank you to my two metas, Katie and Tessa, and to you for reading. Feel free to leave me your final impressions :) <3 
> 
> With all of my love,  
> Your dedicated author,
> 
> Amy.


	12. Bonus: The proposal(s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> true-loves-tackle requested me to write a proposal for this fic, considering it ends with them married. So here you go, some missing proposal(s) :) If you desire any bonus, feel free to ask them to me! I'll try to write them as rapidly as I can :) 
> 
> Also, a really big thank you for all of your amazing comments. They make my day. They really do. And I love you all dearly <3 
> 
> Amy.

“People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away.”  
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

 

1787\. 

He asks her during a port call in some wretched tavern, while his crew sings drunk words and he’s in no better state than them. 

She’s sitting at his side. Alcohol causes her heart to be lighter, stupider, and there are tears in her eyes because they are all fucking idiots. 

The temperature is overwhelming, body heat and rum coloring their cheeks magenta, and he smells like Heaven amidst beer and sweat. 

“...What shall we do tonight?...” crass laughter echoes, filling her head, making her dizzy “beeed a prettyyy wenchhhh!” and she wants to be annoyed but she bursts into laughters. 

And her gestures are clumsy but she doesn’t care, and when her cheek finds his leathered shoulder, she doesn’t mind much. 

(He really does smell good.) 

His good hands finds her own, sticky fingers hugging, and she loves the spark of electricity that shakes her entire being. 

“Swan?” she hears a whisper in her ear, but she’s pretty sure he’s yelling. 

She giggles when he kisses the inside of her neck, just below her ear, leaves a wet cloud there, pretends she wants to push him away and brings him closer instead. 

“Yeah, Captain?”

Calling him captain is enough for her to laugh harder, especially because his eyebrows try to form a severe line above the tormented blue of his eyes, appear ridiculous instead. 

A second passes for him to consider her through his thick eyelashes, a few centimeters separating them, before he bends again towards her in a breath. 

“I think we should get married.” 

It’s all it takes her to really lose it, her head falling on his shoulder as she wipes tears of hilarity on his skin. 

(Oh, how she doesn’t let it die. Mumbles “good morning my dear husband” over breakfast, satisfaction sparkling in her eyes. ) 

(To avenge his dignity, he cunningly shifts her chair when she stands up to get milk. 

She discovers the floor is no tender partner.) 

.

He asks her again during her last night on the Jolly Roger. (Before it all goes to hell.) 

He asks her when she’s folding her clothes to leave and he’s sitting beside her on her bed, and he really wants her to stay. 

He grumbles it like some insult, like some accusation. 

“We should get married.” 

She huffs her shoulder, mostly to hide the glimmer in her eyes. 

“You know, Swan. It’s not like it would count anyway. It would be more of a…” how tender is the blue of his eyes, how desperate, how raw, “a souvenir.” 

How difficult it is to swallow. 

.

He asks her again, as they watch the sunrise and she draws their last memory. 

He asks her with kisses on her neck and nimble fingers in her hair. 

He asks her with a cheeky tone and tears in his throat, and she blames the cruelty of an early morning for that one salty pearl on her cheek. 

.

2013\. 

It’s a promise she makes during a sleepless night in Camelot, when he’s lost in Morpheus’s arms and she’s laying besides him in a cold bed. 

Darkness is filling her lungs but when her hand is tangled with his hair, the voices are so quiet she could swear they are sleeping too. 

She watches him, relishes in the peacefulness of his features under a candlelit, watches as his chest sways, traces his jawline, his Adam’s apple, presses a kiss on his temple. 

And then, very quietly, barely above a whisper, she tells him.

“I really want to marry you, pirate.” 

She can almost hear in his silence the “I would gladly marry myself too.” 

.

It’s a beautiful late afternoon of November. 

The sky is wearing a pale grey dress, and it almost smells like Christmas.

They are both sitting in their rocking chair on their porch, bodies covered by a fleece blue blanket, and their cold hands are holding a hot cocoa. 

He’s babbling about his day, his two oceans serene, content, happy, the waves so soft and loving against her figure, and she can not think of any moment in her life where she’s been happier. 

Where she’s been inhabited by this lightness, this freedom. 

“...And then your father was bloody offended, you know Dave, and I,-...” a pause, his brows softly furrowed, “-and you’re not listening to me, love.” 

“Hmm?” 

She dives in her hot beverage to hide her guilty smile. “You’re just so handsome, it’s hard to concentrate.” 

She sees it, how hard he tries to stay serious, even purses his lips and steps back a tad in his chair. But then she cups his cheek and bends towards him, and it’s infuriatingly adorable how he keeps her from kissing him, raising his chin. And it’s a lot of stupid giggles and finally, finally, her swollen lips finding his, slightly cold and meticulously chocolate-flavored. 

“Mmm, much better, love,” he hums against her lips and she smiles. 

She takes a moment then, a moment to consider him, him and his big blue eyes of an infinite tenderness and devotion, him and his bright pink lips, him and his rosy cheeks, him and his elegant nose, him and his dishevelled hair, him and his perfume that never changed through the years, him. 

And then the careless word, the innocent one, the childish confession. 

“We should get married.” 

It’s mesmerizing. How his oceans sparkle, seem brought back to life, how he still blushes after all of these years. 

It’s even more magical, his answer. 

“Aye, my love.”


	13. Bonus 2: Thomas Rupert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Tessa, my one and only ♥

I would like damn well to hear your voice again -F.Scott Fitzgerald.  
.

She wonders if he recognized her in Hell. If he saw the blonde of her hair and cried her name. 

She wonders if he watched over them from Heaven. If he helped convinced Zeus that Killian deserved to live again. 

She wonders if wherever he is, he still smells like chocolate and childhood memories. 

She wonders if he wonders about her too. 

.

It’s a journey she takes alone. 

It’s a bright morning of spring. The sun is blinding, dazzling, warm, loving. Candide birds are dancing, they giggle from time to time. The air is pure. 

She’s wearing a white cotton dress, the fabric terribly light, and the wind is a familiar embrace. 

It’s her first time here. (Since Killian died.) 

Her throat tightens as she walks across the lot, hands fisted over her leather bag. Her legs are incredibly heavy, almost as reluctant to be here as she is. The grass beneath her feet is tender, but the tombstones are knives into her heart. 

After all this time, they are incredibly bitter and harsh. 

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. 

She swallows as she searches for his name on the marble, her paces slow, uncertain. 

She hopes he doesn’t mind that she took so long. That she wasn’t strong enough. That a part of her will always be the scared little girl with tears on her cheeks he held in his arms once upon another time. 

She inhales deeply. The sun is a soothing presence against the bare skin of her arms. 

(She knows he doesn’t mind. Of course.)

“You were far too perfect of a human for that; weren’t you, Rupert?” 

Her own voice surprises her. She remembered it softer, less evident the pain throbbing into her entire being. 

Pearls birth at the edges of her eyes, emotion washing over her in a terrible wave, as the tombstone’s lettering catches her eyes. 

It hurts. 

He had told her his full name on her third night on the ship. When she was too haunted by memories to sleep, and he had recognized the fury in her eyes. 

“Shh, little lass. Do not worry yar pretty mind, ya’re safe now.” 

“Ahoy Rupert.” Oh, how cocky she wants to sound, how clumsy are the words instead. How they stumble on each other. It’s pathetic. 

She opens her mouth then, thrice, tries, tries her hardest. Ignores that one fucking traitor hurtling down her cheek. 

“The sun is shining-” her voice breaks, it’s pathetic, “-so... so are you.” 

She inhales deeply then, chins up to blink back tears. Her hands are shaking around her bag, they don’t know what to do, they are almost as lost as she is. 

“I’m sorry I took so long,” she bites the interior of her mouth, wishes the warmth of his gaze could ease her mind. “I meant to go earlier. I really did. But you know Storybook, always another adventure…” 

Stop fucking lying to yourself. 

Her tongue is rasp over her bitten lips, heart at the edges of her mouth. She breathes in.

“That’s bullshit.” A pause, the condemnation ringing in her words. “I was afraid.” 

She looks up, realizes she’s been staring at her feet since she started talking. Despite everything, she feels so much lighter now that she told him. 

(He had always understood her better than anyone else, from a mutual agreement with God that he shall be her guardian angel.) 

And there, in front of Thomas Rupert’s grave, Emma Swan is eager to tell him a lot of things. 

She wants to tell him how big the hole is that he left in her heart, how tremendous, how infuriating it is. 

She wants to tell him she misses him so much the air won’t seem to reach her lungs. 

She wants to tell him his absence is the heaviest thing she ever had to bear. 

“We’ve known each other for a month and you were the best friend I ever had,” and she mumbles it the most hastily she can, afraid the words will get caught in the cobweb of her sorrow.

She mumbles it with love and affection, because she wants him to know; how much she loved him and how difficult it is for her to be here. 

She wants him to know his name hasn’t reach her lips for three hundred years and yet her love for him never ceased to exist. 

She doesn’t. 

(Ah, had she not been her. Had she been better at spilling the truth. At loving people.) 

Instead, she tells him about her life. She puts fervor in her words, attempts at painting the beauty of her journey. 

She wants him to be proud of her from up there. Because it wasn’t easy. Dear god it wasn’t. But she fought. 

“... I hit his head with the compass, and I won obviously,...”

The wind sounds like his laughter. 

“... and now, as you may see, we’re getting along.” 

She laughs. She truly laugh. It shakes her entire body and squishes her eyes in this wave of happiness of the purest kind. 

Her right hand instinctively finds her belly, leaves there some warmth. 

She takes a deep breath then, summons all of her courage, heart pounding. 

Come on Emma. You can do this. 

“Thomas Rupert,” Fuck, her voice is shaking again, “I really wanted to introduce you to someone.” 

A dove lands on a flowered branch in front of her, the wood singing. She’s listening to her. 

“His name is Thomas,” Emma starts again, and her hands are drawing patterns over her stomach. “Thomas Swan Jones.” 

There it is. 

“Quite the presumptuous name; believe me, I know,” echoes a voice from behind, causing her to startle. 

Frowning, her heart misses a bit when she discovers the serenity in his ocean eyes. 

Leaning against a tree, her husband is taking in the view, one hand at his belt, lips spread in a cocky grin. The blue of his eyes is shining under the sunlight, pale yellow and green sparkles dancing. 

“It was Emma’s idea.” Of course. “Believe me mate, I was bloody against it,” he grumbles. 

She chuckles, rolls her eyes. 

He’s ridiculous. She almost wants him dead again. 

Ah, you’re definitely getting old, pirate. 

But then his steps lead him to her and he seems to carry with him a comforting aura. And when his lips find her cheek in utter adoration and his good hand caresses her belly, it’s a tad difficult to deny how much she loves him. 

“We just hope he won’t be as much of a stubborn ass as you were,” he adds in the curve of her neck.

Idiot. 

(She absolutely does not laugh in his kiss.) 

.

Chuckles echo in Heaven. 

“Good luck with that, Captain,” smiles a voice. “Oh, and little lass; I’m afraid I still can’t quite figure out what ya find in such a useless ass as Hook.”


End file.
